


The Witcher and the Widow

by Drakontion



Category: Andrzej Sapkowski, Witcher/Wiedźmin
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakontion/pseuds/Drakontion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the troubles in Vizima, Geralt rode off, looking for new adventure. The story of a chance encounter and the impact of the witcher on one woman's life. With thanks to Sesh, Night and Skeasel who inspired me, and Skeasel for betaing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This series is based almost solely on the game The Witcher, with some information from the wiki and the author's site, purely because of the fact that the books are almost impossible to find over here (I have to import them, and they haven't arrived yet) and I don't read Polish. So for the book purists, I'm sorry, and I hope you'll enjoy this anyway.

Is there a point when you know your life is on an axis? A point where, in later years, you look back and say yes, _that_ is when it changed. _That_ is when it happened. After _that_ , everything was different – for the better, for the worse.

Although, the only thing worse than change is stagnation.

Which was precisely what I was afraid of. Stagnation. To rot, still quick, in a half life of sameness day after day after day. To feel the endless, crushing weight of monotony smothering and suffocating without relent. To have no future, no brighter day, no new morrow's dawn to spark hope and anticipation.

So it should not surprise, then, that I grasped at the first avenue for change that came my way.

It was a miserably rainy afternoon, as all days seemed to be, but I did not have the luxury of escaping the cold and wet. I was a woman widowed, next to penniless and marked as barren, an outsider amidst my community. Add to the fact I had some learning and skills of my own, my only legacy from my father, and the rest of the village scorned and reviled me. Some called me witch. Sometimes I wished I were.

So instead of relaxing before a fire, chatting amiably with my husband and child, eating and enjoying the reprieve from work, I was out in my meagre plot of land – one could scarcely call it a field – attempting to salvage what I could out of this season's crop. It was a wretched failure of a task. The cold and the wet had rotted the poor roots in the weak soil. I sighed and kicked at the sod despondently. There would be naught gained here.

The light was fading fast into twilight and the rest of the village was deserted, lights flickering behind clouded window panes. I raised my face to the grey uncaring clouds and closed my eyes, letting the rain sluice sweat and grime away. Chill droplets pattered on my face. If I had the energy, I would have cried from sheer desperation and frustration. All I could do was heave a sigh and wish briefly, fervently for something to go right, just once.

When I opened my eyes again, there he was. A tall figure, garbed in leathers, close fitting and dark; leaning against the rough drystone wall that fenced my sorry excuse for a field from the brushes beyond. His hair was long and pale, plastered to his skull by the wet. He stared at me broodingly and I took an involuntary step back, clutching at my hoe. As if that would do any good.

We stared at each other in the lowering light. Through the gloom and drizzle I could make out the polished hilts of two swords over his shoulders. What kind of person carries not just one, but two swords? I wondered. What kind of person sheathes his sword on his back instead of at his side?

How long had he been standing there watching me? I flushed, cheeks burning against the cold rain.

Did his lip quirk at that or were my eyes failing me in this damnable light?

"You should get inside, m'lady," he said, and I started. His voice was a deep, gravely rumble, undeniably male, powerful and resonant. It reverberated through me, making me shiver. Making me remember that I was a woman, alone in the dusk.

"It's not safe out at night."

I drew my hoe up defensively. His lips _definitely_ quirked at that. I was unaccountably annoyed with myself. "I… thank you, m'lord."

I backed away, then turned and walked towards the door of my hut. _Walk, don't run_. I half anticipated a rough hand on my shoulder, but I reached the threshold unscathed. My hand on the latch, I turned. He was still there, unmoving, watching me. I caught the glitter of eyes under lowered brows, then ducked my head and went inside, shutting the gloom out behind me.

Inside I hurriedly latched the door and sank back against it, my breathing harsh, my heart pounding uncomfortably. I looked down: the silly hoe was still in my hands. I laughed shortly, and propped it in the corner. I was not going out again tonight to put it in its proper place.

I wiped the back of a hand against the trickling rivulets of water on my face and grimaced, finding bedraggled tangles of hair knotted on my forehead. Along with the mud on my cheeks and the hollows under my eyes, I must have looked a fright. I laughed again, longer this time. I was a widow scorned; I had no business concerning myself over my looks. Save that for women who could get a husband.

My laughter died and dejection settled its familiar weight around my heart again. I sighed and pushed off from the door. I was cold and wet and hungry, but I was alive, and though I despaired, giving into hopelessness was not in my nature.

I stoked the fire and lit a lamp, and began to look for something to fix for supper. The warmth from the hearth reminded me of my sodden clothes, so I peeled them off and let them drop to the floor, a small act of rebellion that only I would see. I'd wash them after I'd washed myself.

Naked, I padded over to the wooden half tub. I had half filled it earlier today in anticipation but the water had turned icy. I dipped out kettles and pots and placed them over the fire to heat, then found some bread and a slice of ham and huddled in front of the flames to eat it, turning to toast my skin. My hair started to dry and wisp up and I patted it back, knotting it at the back of my neck.

I was comfortably warm and full by the time the water had heated so wasted no time in adding it to my bath. I drizzled a few drops of my own scented soap into the water – celandine and ginatia blossom – and breathed in the sweetly scented vapours. They were both relaxing and uplifting and my heart eased somewhat as I inhaled. Then I lowered myself into the warm water and lay back in the tub.

In my warm, perfumed tub before the fire it was easy to forget the harsh world outside. I cleaned myself, sponging water over my back and shoulders, rubbing the soap through my hair and bending to rinse it clean. Then I lay immersed in the warm water, breathing gently and watching the hypnotic swaying of the flames through half closed eyes.

I must have dozed off because I woke with a start to the echo of a loud bang. I jumped, splashing water over the tub's rim. Droplets sizzled as they fell into the fire. Gripping the sides of the tub, I sat and listened intently, but the noise did not repeat itself. I contemplated staying in the tub, but the water was cooling, my hands were shrivelling, and I still had my clothes to wash. Regretfully, I stood up and reached for a cloth to dry myself with, when I heard a muffled noise at the door.

I whirled and froze, listening intently. Yes, there it was again. A voice, I was sure of it. There was a thump on the wood and then a scraping noise. I bit my lip, closed my eyes, and steeled my nerves, and went to the door. Breathing a quick prayer, I gripped the hoe and flipped the latch, opening the door to the cold night air. There was no one there. I looked around – nothing to be seen. Raindrops prickled on my skin, making me uncomfortably aware I was mostly naked, with only a brief cloth clutched to my chest, and brandishing a dirty hoe at an empty doorway.

Snorting, I took a step back, then looked down and stiffened. _He_ was there, the man from the fence, sprawled across my doorway. Blood matted his pale hair, diluting and rinsing out in the rain. His hand was open, face up across the step, fingers curled towards the palm. He was shuddering uncontrollably in the cold, and the back of his leather jerkin was sliced open, revealing bloody, bruised flesh. I reached down and gently touched his hand – he was chill to the touch and he didn't react to me at all. I folded my lips.

Putting the hoe back in its corner, I reached down, hooked my hands under his armpits and struggled to drag him inside. He was a dead weight, scraping across my floor and leaving a trail of water and blood behind him. His weapons trailed behind him, scoring tiny lines into the stones of the floor. I grunted, heaving him through the doorway, and panted with the exertion. I was strong, I had to be; but he was several hundredweight of muscle lying inert on the stones.

I rolled his legs inside and got the door shut, latching it securely, then looked down at my guest. In the firelight his skin was pale, with livid red scars etched into his face. His hair was dead white, soaked in blood and looked unwholesomely rosy in the glow of the fire. His leathers were sodden and filthy, covered in mud and gore. I sighed and kneeled next to him, reaching for a buckle.

As I touched him he roused suddenly, his hand flashing out and grasping my arm. He'd moved so fast, even in his state, faster than I could see. I gasped in fright and he looked at me directly, eyes flashing golden in the light. He bared his teeth and then looked me over, eyes widening.

"Well," he smirked. "I can see I've come to the right place." And he stared at me openly and appreciatively.

I hunched over myself, holding my threadbare shield of cloth up protectively, and his smirk deepened. I couldn't even remember how long it had been since I'd had a man look at me naked. Let alone a strange, exotic man half dead from cold and wet and wounds. I felt an unravelling in the pit of my belly, a quivering; and I firmly quashed it down.

He was still holding my arm, tightly but gently. His fingers froze me to the bone. "You knocked on my door. You were hurt. I brought you in."

He studied me intently with his strange eyes. "Then I must thank you, m'lady."

I pulled on my arm, but his grip was like iron. "Please," I whispered, feeling the quivering in my belly being replaced by the first bitter tendrils of fear.

His lip twisted and he dropped his hand abruptly, wincing as the movement caused one of his cuts to burn. "I'll not hurt you, m'lady," he said harshly. "I… need your help," he added grudgingly.

I sat back on my heels, cradling my arm.

He glanced at me sidelong. His eyes still glittered gold in the light and with a start I realised that was because they _were_ gold – golden as the dawning sun on a clear day, golden as the yolk of a fresh egg, golden as an oft-polished oren jealously hoarded by a farmwife. I gaped at him, and the derisive twist came back to his lips.

"I am a witcher, m'lady. Will you still help me, or not?"

A witcher? Here? How? But… I gathered myself, shaking my head. Witcher or no, he needed my help, else he'd be out in the cold bleeding his life away like any other man.

"Of course I'll help," I said softly.

He looked at me for a long span of seconds, then nodded once, and relaxed back on the floor. With his eyes closed, he spoke again, gravely voice wry. "I suggest you put something on, m'lady. I'm not dead _yet_."

I flushed and stammered and got up and put on a clean shift. It clung to my damp skin and I was glad he still had his eyes closed. Though a small, treacherous part of me wished he'd open them again and look at me. It had been so long…

Sighing, I cleared my thoughts, gathered clean rags, my sewing kit, and herbs from the shelf, and put another kettle of water on the fire to heat. I knelt back beside him and studied his wounds. He had a long gash on his forehead extending back into the hairline which was still sullenly seeping blood, scratches on his face and neck, but nothing else on the front. Only the gashes on his back.

Timidly I reached for the buckles of his jerkin again. This time he made no move to stop me. I wrestled with the water soaked leather, eventually pulling them free. His linen shirt was matted to his chest and I couldn't help but notice his superb physique. He was broad and muscular but not bulky, built for stamina and grace as well as strength. I swallowed. _Stop thinking about that._

His skin was icy and clammy and as I watched he shivered absently. I frowned. I needed to get him warm, and soon, otherwise he'd catch a fever. I peeled his soaked gauntlets off, draping them over a chair back from the fire, and then reached for the buckle of his belt. His eyes snapped open at my touch and their golden depths pinned me, but he said not a word. I flushed.

"I need to get you warm," I explained.

He nodded once, then closed his eyes again. Suddenly freed, I breathed a small sigh of relief and set to work again. The belt leather was swollen and I swore under my breath as I worked at it, banging my fingertips on the tang of the buckle. Eventually it slithered free, and I undid the laces of his trousers, blushing furiously and trying not to touch anything _there_. Though I couldn't help but look, as I peeled the wet leather down over his slim hips. Oh but he was impressively made, even chilled as he was…

I peeled his trousers down his legs, and then sat back and swore at myself, because of course he was still wearing his boots. I could have sworn I heard a low, deep chuckle, but when I looked up suspiciously, he was still and silent.

His boots were no mean feat to remove. The laces were knotted and swollen and took forever to untangle. It would have been quicker to cut them, but he didn't suggest it and I didn't want to. Eventually I had both of them off and his white feet lay bare on the floor. Quickly I skimmed his trousers off and draped them up where they could drip in safety.

I crouched back down next to him and tried to lever him up. He looked at me, startled for a moment, and I noticed his eyes were slightly glazed. I pursed my lips and encouraged him up. There was no way I could lift him into the tub. Together we managed to get him to stand – he was unsteady on his feet and new blood trickled down his face, droplets splattering on his chest and on the floor, but he managed to get into the tub. He hissed as the water covered his wounds and settled. In the exact same spot I was relaxing not very long ago.

I swallowed, and busied myself removing his undone shirt and jerkin, leaning him forward to slide the sleeves down his arms. As I removed the fabric a small pendant fell out of its folds, curiously carved like a wolf's head. I reached out to touch it and he rumbled. No, he _growled_. I snatched my fingers back and looked at him.

His eyes were open, golden and terrible. "Leave it be," he said quietly.

I swallowed and nodded. His lids slid closed and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. I turned and looked at the wounds on his back – three large parallel gashes, one quite deep, possibly down to muscle; the others surface wounds only. They were puffy and angry looking in the firelight.

I touched them softly – they were warm, far warmer than the rest of his skin. Not a good sign. Gently I leaned him back in the tub. He shifted until he found a comfortable position and then relaxed. I got up to fetch my herbs and the heated water.

Kneeling back down beside him, I pulled out a small bottle of tincture of white myrtle and poured some on a cloth. His nostrils twitched as the astringent odour rose on the air. "White myrtle?" he queried.

"Yes," I blurted out, startled. "How did you…"

"It's my job to know these things," he said. "White myrtle is fine to use. You may go ahead."

I frowned at his arrogance, but did as he bade. He drew in a sharp breath as I dabbed at his scratches, but otherwise made no sound. I cleaned up the blood and filth from his face, rinsing my cloth in the warm water. Leaning in, I studied the gash on his forehead. Though it was long, it had already started to knit, and it was shallow and fairly clean from the blood flowing out of it. I didn't think it would need stitching. First, though, I needed to get his hair clean. It was disgustingly filthy.

I got up and grabbed another pot, this one empty, and set it at the base of the tub, under his head. Then I tilted his head back over the rim of the tub and scooped water up over his head, rinsing his hair.

When it was thoroughly wet and the worst of the debris was rinsed out, I lathered up some of my soap and applied it to his hair, taking care around the cut on his forehead. His nostrils twitched again at the scent.

"Ginatia?" he said disbelievingly.

I bristled. "Would you prefer to stay smelling like whatever it is that died in your hair?"

He snorted. "No, I suppose not."

"Well then," I said tartly, and continued.

His hair was silky soft in my hands, long fine strands that shimmered palely in the light and caught on the rough skin of my palms. I marvelled at its texture – surely men were not supposed to be granted hair like this?

I took almost sinful pleasure in getting his hair clean, massaging the grime away from his scalp and running the long strands through my fingers. The tight muscles of his face relaxed as I rubbed and soothed. Eventually, though, his hair was unavoidably clean, so I gave it a final rinse and then twisted the worst of the water out of it.

Hair clean and rinsed, I rummaged in my herb bag, pulled out a salve and gingerly smeared it onto the cut on his forehead. The creamy ointment sank instantly into his skin and I slathered on more. He sighed as it disappeared, easing the pain of the wound.

That done, I rinsed the last traces of blood from him and stood up. "Come on," I said, "let's get you lying down so I can see to those wounds on your back."

He grunted, eyes still closed, and grasped the edges of the tub, levering himself up laboriously, water sluicing off him and splashing onto the floor. I held onto his shoulders and he leaned on me, making me buckle slightly with his weight, as he lifted first one leg out and then the other. He groaned ever so slightly as his back flexed and I led him over to the bed. He was wobbly and wavering on his feet, making his steps shaky, but we managed. I pulled back the cover and lay him down on his belly, arranging his arms to the side where they wouldn't pull at the wounds.

 _I have a naked man on my bed._ The thought flashed through my mind unbidden. Well, a naked, wounded, half unconscious, slightly delirious man on my bed. I know I'd asked for change but… I pursed my lips and turned to get my kit, bringing the lantern over to light the area better.

Settling down beside him, I studied the wounds. I would definitely need to stitch the deep one, and possibly the other two as well. I touched his back softly; the skin was still cool away from the gashes, but no longer clammy, just damp from the bath.

"I'm going to pour some tincture onto these wounds, and then I'm going to have to stitch them for you."

He grunted once in acknowledgement. Uncommunicative male.

I took a deep breath and poured the liquid over his back. He hissed and tensed as it penetrated the wounds, the muscles of his back flexing impressively. I admired his resolve. I knew from experience how much the formula stung on an open cut.

Setting the bottle aside, I dabbed away the excess fluid and then took up my needle and thread. "Are you ready?" I said softly.

"Yes," he said tersely.

With steady fingers I pushed the needle into his skin and slowly began to sew up the gaping wound, pausing to wipe it down with the tincture as I went. I noted with sympathy how his fingers clenched the bedsheets, but did not pause. The wound had already been open for too long.

The lantern was starting to gutter by the time I had finished my stitching, my fingers were cramping, and I was nearly out of white myrtle tincture. I gave the area a final wipe down and sat back to admire my handiwork. The gashes looked much better stitched up neatly and cleaned. I reached down for my salve and smeared it liberally onto the wounds, then covered the whole thing in a soft, clean cloth.

His back muscles were still knotted and quivering so I stroked his shoulder soothingly. "It's over," I said softly. "Relax." Gradually he did. His fingers loosened their death grip on my sheets and his breathing slowed and evened out. I soothed his shoulder until he'd relaxed completely, pulled the covers up over him, and then got up, stretching out the kinks in my back, and started to clean up the mess.

I emptied the bloody, dirty water from the tub as best I could without actually moving it, throwing potfuls of water out the door to mingle with the mud outside. I set more pots out to collect rainwater for the morning, and set to sorting out his gear.

His weapons I propped up against the wall and left, I had no experience with swords and didn't want to be responsible for accidentally damaging one. Or slicing my finger off. They were wickedly sharp. I did stroke a finger admiringly over the patina on the slightly smaller one though. It glittered brightly in the firelight, looking both sinister and comfortingly reliable at the same time. Both weapons were battered and well used, but also well looked after. I guessed they should be fine.

I brushed the filth from his leathers and left them to dry away from the fire so they wouldn't crack. His shirt I cleaned with more of my soap – smell of ginatia, I smiled to myself – and hung out to dry over a chair back. He had no pack or any other possessions to speak of. I remembered my own dress, abandoned and forlorn in its puddle, and washed that too. I sat back, tired, and wondered about my mysterious guest.

The lantern flame fluttered and then winked out abruptly and I sighed and waited for my eyes to adjust to the light of the fire only. I got up and made sure the door was securely closed, went over to the bed, looking down at my patient. He was lying still and quiet, his breathing deep and even. I gently touched his skin: he was still cool. I frowned and sighed, and got into bed next to him, fitting him to me so I could warm him with my body.

 _There's a naked man in my bed_ , was my last tired rambling thought before I closed my eyes and sleep overtook me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks again to my beta, Skeasel, and Sesh and the girls for encouragement.

With thanks again to my beta, Skeasel, and Sesh and the girls for encouragement.

Here there be almost-smut and witcher nekkidness.

* * *

'

I woke in light, to the almost forgotten sensation of having another warm body next to mine. Next to, and partially on. I looked down. One of his hands was cupping my breast, almost wholly covering it, the palm resting over my nipple which had hardened abruptly at the realisation. I groaned under my breath and shifted slightly. He responded by flexing his fingers, unconsciously kneading my breast, and I bit my lip. The feeling of having large, strong fingers enclosing me was almost unbearable.

Experimentally I tried wiggling out from under him, but his grip on me was firm and my traitorous nipple hardened further, if that were even possible. I tried gently prying his fingers up, but I may as well have been trying to shift the moon. I sighed and sank back down.

At least he was sleeping, his breathing was steady and he had a good colour. I tried peering over his shoulder to see the cloth-covered gashes, but couldn't crane my neck that far.

I lay back, hoping that he'd move before certain other pressing needs made themselves even more urgent, resolutely not thinking about having a naked man in my bed. With his hand on my breast. I closed my eyes and pressed my thighs together, relishing the slow grinding ache that was building. No, this wasn't good at all.

My movement must have roused him because he inhaled deeply, out of rhythm with his normal breathing. As I turned to look, his eyelids fluttered open and his strange eyes focused on me. I realised his pupils were slit vertically, like a cat's, and I stared in fascination at the glistening tapestry in the depths of his eyes, only inches from my face.

Lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement and he cleared his throat. I blushed. "Oh… good morning… how do you feel?"

His eyes held mine and then slowly travelled down to where his hand still cupped my breast. One brow raised and he looked back at me. I swallowed at the sudden flicker in his eyes: suggestive, knowing and carnal.

His thumb idly started to brush backwards and forwards across my hardened nipple and I caught my breath, willing myself not to arch upwards into his hand. I closed my eyes to compose myself. When I opened them he was still watching me, golden eyes taking in every fleeting expression.

"I hurt. But I feel much better," he rumbled, the vibrations sending tiny shock waves into my frame. "Thank you," he added.

I cleared my throat. "You're welcome."

My nipple was a sensitised pool of fire, each brush of his thumb sending a jolt of desire through me. I tried not to squirm, biting my lip.

He half smiled. "Unfortunately I have no coin with which to pay you for your help," he murmured. I swallowed. Had his voice gotten even lower? It was doing unspeakable things to the molten pool that was gathering in my loins. I shifted again, unsure whether I was trying to ease it or fan it.

"I shall just have to pay you in another manner," he concluded, and dipped his head down towards me slowly. I watched, enraptured, as his eyes hooded and drew closer, desire sparking in their depths. Then he hissed and winced, pupils contracting, as the stitches caught and protested his movement. He froze and eased back, teeth bared.

"Perhaps… another time," he managed, and removed his hand.

I was shockingly cold without it on me. Part of me was relieved it was gone, another part of me howled in denial. I squashed that part down, stamping hard, and cleared my throat.

"I should… ah, are you hungry?"

He gingerly lay back, nodding curtly. I sighed and clambered up, taking care not to jostle him. I stretched, easing out the kinks in my back from spending the night in the one position, and looked down at the witcher in my bed. He was sprawled half on his side, the covers draped around his waist, baring his back to the cool air. I bent down to check the dressing, touching the skin softly. Fluids had seeped from the wounds overnight, staining the cloth and sticking it to the flesh, but the skin was clean, dry and not hot to the touch. I grimaced. That would have to come off. Food first though.

Rummaging through my meagre pantry, I found the bread, slightly stale but still edible, and the last of the ham, placed them on a platter and brought it over to my patient. He twisted his head to look at me as I approached, his eyes an unnerving flash of gold. His brow rose at the scant fare and I flushed.

"I'm sorry… it's all I have," I said somewhat defensively.

He closed his eyes. "I am grateful for whatever you can offer, m'lady."

I set the platter down by him so he could easily reach it. He might have been wounded, but I was not about to start feeding him by hand! His lips twitched ever so slightly as he regarded the plate and then he availed himself of the food, moving tentatively. I backed away.

"I'll go get you some water. And I need to clean your wound."

He grunted in response, mouth full. He was nearly finished the bread already. I sighed. I'd need to go out and buy more, and soon.

I blinked in the weak, watery sunlight as I opened the door. Outside the village looked like it was from a fairytale, water droplets catching and sparkling like a shower of diamonds in the morning light. My neighbours were up and about and looked at me suspiciously, standing in my open door in my shift at this late hour of the day. I nodded to them, receiving only their scowls in response, as per usual. I pressed my lips together and stooped to retrieve my kettles. At least they were full from the night's rain.

I kicked the door closed behind me, making it bang, and deposited the kettles on the bench loudly. Even though I'd lived here for a decade, and had been a good wife and neighbour, they still suspected me, still resented me. The fancy townborn witch, who never got sick, never had children, whose husband died and who stayed to live by herself. I snorted under my breath in disgust. Melitele save me from the ignorant beliefs and suspicion of fools.

Placing one kettle over the fire to heat, I filled a cup from the other and brought it to my patient, who had long since finished the last of the bread and was gnawing on the heel of the ham. I offered him the cup, which he took greedily and slurped down, water spilling over the sides and soaking into the sheets from the awkward angle at which he lay. I sighed.

When he'd finished he belched gently and handed the cup back. I refilled it and set it down on the bench.

"Lie back. I'm going to look at your wounds."

He nodded grimly and settled himself into the mattress. I found a clean cloth and poured heated water out of the kettle into a pan, adding the last of my water myrtle tincture to it. I set it down by the bed and kneeled next to it. Soaking the cloth, I laid it onto the dressing on his back, softening the dried fluids. After a few minutes, the cloth lifted easily from his skin, and I inspected my handiwork.

His flesh was smooth, the stitches still neat. There was no sign of infection that I could see, no scent of rot or putrefaction. I smiled in satisfaction and sponged the wounds clean before applying more of my salve, noting that it was fast running out as well. "You're healing well," I pronounced as I stood up.

"You're a good healer," he responded. "Witch?"

I stiffened, though I supposed he couldn't see it with his back to me. "No," I replied. "Just a woman who knows a bit about herbs and how to treat an injured body."

His deep voice was soft and rough. "You have a rare talent then, m'lady. I thank you."

"You're welcome," I muttered, embarrassed.

He was silent for long enough that I'd thought he'd drifted off to sleep. I tidied up my herbs and slipped on a dress, tying up the laces. As I sat down to put on my boots, he cleared his throat, making me jump.

"Your husband, m'lady, where is he?"

My voice was cold, even to my own ears. "He's dead, witcher."

"I am sorry, m'lady." I turned away. I didn't want to hear the sympathy in his voice.

"It's old news," I said. "Neither your fault nor your concern." I gathered up my purse and walked over to the door where I paused, my hand on the latch. "I need to buy some more food. Sleep, witcher. I'll return soon." And I opened the door and slipped out into the fresh air.

Outside I took a few deep breaths, cursing the witcher for his compassion, and trudged through the mud to the village square, where a few stalls had been set up. I counted the coins in my purse – not nearly enough to feed a hungry, healing man plus myself for any span of days. I sighed and squared my shoulders.

The villagers looked up as I approached and conversation died. I stepped up to the baker's stall and looked over his wares, selecting two loaves and a bag of flour. He squinted at me in the morning light. "That'll be ten orens," he said, and hawked and spat on the ground to the side.

I looked at him in disgust. "I could buy five loaves with ten orens," I retorted.

"Don't have five loaves," he sneered back.

"I'll give you five orens."

He folded his arms and ran his eyes up and down my body. My stomach turned. "I could give em to you for nothin', if you lay with me."

I stared him coldly in the eye. "I'd rather scoop my own eye out with a rusty spoon than lay with you."

His face froze and twisted with hatred and I regretted my words. I threw the ten orens down on his stall, watching as he scrambled to scoop up the coins before they landed in the mud, wrapped my loaves up in my scarf and turned to leave.

"Witch," he hissed as I walked away. I faltered, but kept walking.

I dodged a few grubby children playing in the mud and paused in front of the farmer's stalls. The closest one was manned by a wizened looking lech who was licking his lips as he eyed me. My gorge rose and I bypassed him, making my way to the middle stall. An old friend of my husband's was behind it, and I knew at least that he wouldn't be importuning me. He looked up as I stopped and smiled at me kindly.

"What would you like, lass?"

I relaxed slightly and smiled back. "Whatever you have, m'lord. I need as much as I can get."

He looked at me curiously and I hastened to explain. "I have an injured man staying with me. I'm treating him. He's in a bad way and needs to eat."

His brows lowered and he leaned forward, speaking confidentially to me. "You be careful now lass, they say there's a witcher about, and you can't trust those bastards."

I stifled a giggle. "It's the witcher I have staying with me. But don't worry on my account. He's behaved perfectly well so far."

He looked at me, aghast. "Lass, you need to get rid of him. A witcher is bad news. And you have no husband to protect your honour…"

I sighed sadly. "I thank you for your concern, m'lord, but I have no honour any more. Ask anyone." I patted his hand. "I'll be fine. He needs my help. I can't turn him away."

He hesitated, then nodded paternally at me and I looked over his goods, choosing a leg of mutton and a chicken, along with some fruit and vegetables that looked reasonably fresh, a jug of milk, and some suet for my salve. He bundled it all up in a cloth and I slung it over my back and looked at him enquiringly. He flushed and cleared his throat.

"Go on… take it," he said gruffly, refusing to meet my eyes. "Pay me back when that witcher has gone."

Tears pricked at my eyes at his unlooked-for generosity. "Thank you," I said huskily, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed.

"Yes well. Get on with you then, lass."

I stepped back, dabbing at my eyes, and turned to the final stall I needed – the old herb woman. I'd have no chance to collect my own herbs, not with my patient; so I needed to buy more to replenish my stocks, as much as I deplored buying other people's gatherings. The herb woman was seated by herself on the ground a little way to the side, baskets spread out around her. I picked my way through the mud over to her and crouched down, examining her wares.

She had a goodly quantity of white myrtle, which was plentiful in the area; some celandine and hellebore; and a small amount of berbercane and balisse fruit. No genatia, which I was hardly surprised at. It was difficult to find in this village.

"How much for the myrtle and celandine, mother?"

She fixed a sharp, beady eye on me and stirred the herbs with a clean, if gnarled, finger. "And who ye be healing then, lassie?"

"Just stocking up," I replied gently.

She harrumphed. "If ye say so. Five orens the lot."

I paused. "The lot?"

"I be tired, and my back be aching. I want to go home and have a good drink. Five orens the lot."

Thanks to the farmer's generosity I had the five orens and some to spare. I handed them over gratefully and she cackled as she tucked the coins away. She produced a large cloth pouch and I scooped everything up into it, fastening it to my belt. As I got up to leave, her hand shot out and gripped my arm. It was surprisingly strong and warm, the fingers curved like hawk talons.

"Be careful, lassie," she whispered hoarsely. "Be careful of who ye open the door to." She cackled suddenly, shockingly. "And ye legs!"

I looked down into her dark, bright eyes, more than a little disturbed. "I will, mother." I patted her hand and she let go, blinking at me; then started hefting herself to her feet, groaning and complaining as I backed away.

Having bought all I could think of, let alone afford, I turned away from the village with its distrustful inhabitants, and made my way back to my hut. I felt their eyes on me the entire way there – hot, lustful, suspicious, and hateful. I shuddered as I reached the door, scraping the mud off my boots, and closed it with relief behind me. I leant back against the door and wondered, not for the first time, why I remained here. Why I abided the villager's intolerance. Did they dislike me because I was a widow and yet remained independent, being beholden to no man since my husband died? Because I was yet young and, I supposed, attractive, because with my herb lore I knew how to make creams and potions to protect my skin and hands? Or was it just that they wanted what I denied them, and their thwarted frustrations were what was souring? I sighed and looked around at my hut. It was not much, but it was mine, and it held all of my life's memories.

My patient was lying as I'd left him, seeming not to have moved. I placed my purchases on the bench and unwrapped them. The food I put in the pantry. I left the herbs out so I could work on them later, and shook out the cloth wrappings and folded them neatly. Cloth was always useful.

I set the suet close to the fire to soften, moved the kettle down so it would boil, and got out my mortar and pestle, placing about half of the myrtle petals inside the bowl and grinding away slowly, trying not to make too much noise. The petals reduced to a stringy mush, their sharp odour rising and making me sneeze. I sniffed and looked over to the bed, but he hadn't stirred. I poured the mush into a small square of cloth and tied it off with a length of string. The water in the kettle was bubbling, so I got up and poured some into a large glass jar, then went over to my old armoire and opened the door.

My few treasures were stored inside this cupboard – books I'd brought with me when I married, my wedding dress, my husband's clothes. And the few remaining bottles of good quality vodka my father had given me before he died. I sighed and picked one up – it was less than a third full and I only had two more left. I didn't know where I'd get more when this ran out.

I poured the remainder of the bottle into the jar and lowered the cloth full of mashed myrtle petals into the hot liquid. Delicate traceries of herbal extract immediately began wafting out into the clear fluid, and I watched as they swirled and formed intricate patterns, before dissipating to mix into the solution. I capped the jar and let it stand in the shadows to steep.

Throwing more myrtle petals into the mortar, I added the celandine leaves and ground away, dribbling water to reduce them to a fine paste. My back and hand were aching before I had them finished, but I persevered. When the mix was smooth, I pulled over the pot of suet and stirred it, then poured the soft mess into a clean jar, adding the herbal mixture. Then I sat and folded it in together painstakingly, my back muscles burning at the repetitive movements. It seemed to take an eternity but it was finally done and I had a new pot of salve, smelling clean and fresh. I sealed the jar and put it up on the table. I'd no doubt need it soon.

I looked up and found that he was watching me; his strange cat slit eyes glittering in the firelight. "Oh!"

His face was impassive. "You have a witch's skills, m'lady."

I stiffened. "I'm not a witch."

"No? It's not something to be ashamed of."

I sighed. "Unless you live here," I muttered, then raised my voice. "My father was an apothecary. I used to watch him, hounding him constantly as he treated his patients. I learned from him, but he never allowed me to go and train formally." I shrugged, fighting down the old bitterness. He was dead now, and past my reproach. "I only know simple remedies. Enough to keep me safe and well and clean."

"Ah." He shifted slightly on the bed. "My apologies, m'lady. I knew a healer, once… a good woman."

An unfamiliar feeling surged through me and I swallowed a sour taste in my mouth. How could I possibly be jealous of some woman an unknown witcher had known at one point in time? He was nothing to me, besides a patient – _naked man in my bed_ , my mind whispered insidiously – so why should I care?

He shifted again, restlessly, and I buried my thoughts deeply.

"M'lady… I'm afraid I need to relieve myself."

"Oh. Oh! Of course!" I blushed furiously and got up, moving over to him. He was trying to lift himself up and hissing as the stitches caught. "Wait," I said, and got him to arrange his legs first, dropping them over the side of the bed. Supporting his shoulders, I pulled as he pushed and we got him sitting upright. He was breathing heavily and tiny droplets of sweat had appeared on his forehead. I moved to stand in front of him and hooked my arms under his shoulders, then pulled, lifting him back with me. Finally he was on his feet: unsteady and panting, but upright. I looked down and blushed even harder – the sheet had slipped to the floor as he rose and he was standing as naked as the day he was born before me.

And oh, but he was a well made figure of a man. I closed my eyes swiftly and heard his deep chuckle.

"Much as I'd like to indulge, I'm afraid I can't right now, m'lady." His voice was amused.

I cursed my wanton feelings and his laughing and blatant maleness, and wrapped an arm around his warm torso, guiding him towards the back door. His first steps were hesitant but soon firmed. I opened the door and ushered him out. He arched a brow at me as I paused. "Thank you, m'lady."

I blushed again and turned away, stumbling slightly, and left him to it. I went over to the bed and busied myself tidying it – flicking the sheets, straightening them, tucking them back in. I stooped to retrieve the fallen covers and heard his step behind me, slow but sure. He paused, and I turned to find him regarding my bent over form with a raised brow. I straightened back up hurriedly.

He smiled, a mere twist of his lips, and gestured at himself. "I don't suppose you have something I could put on…?"

"Oh! Of course!" I felt like my face was burning with the heat of my embarrassment. His leathers were still damp and not fit for wear yet. The only other male clothes I had were my husband's. I swallowed my reluctance and moved to retrieve them from where they had lain, folded and untouched for the past year.

He watched as I opened the armoire door and picked up a pair of his trousers, leaving the shirt behind. I left the door open as I returned to him and he peered over my shoulder into its depths. "You have books?" His gravely voice sounded surprised and I looked up at him defensively.

"I inherited them from my father when he died," I said, and thrust the bundle of clothing out at him. "Here, put these on." He caught the trousers reflexively and merely looked at me. "They were my husband's," I said stiffly, and turned away.

There was a brief, still pause and he sighed. "I'm sorry, m'lady."

I crossed my arms under my breasts and my eyes burned as I stared fixedly at the wall. I didn't want his caring, didn't want his sympathy. I didn't.

There was a rustle and a grunt and I hoped he wouldn't fall over putting the trousers on, but I didn't turn around to help. The noises stopped and I could hear his quiet breathing, then the chair creaked and he sighed again in relief.

When I was sure my face wouldn't betray me, I turned around. He had seated himself before the fire, his back held carefully away from the wooden frame of the chair, and was staring morosely into the fire.

"I'll leave as soon as I'm able," he said abruptly. "I won't impose on you."

I snorted. "You're barely able to walk, witcher. You'll stay until I say you are fit to leave."

He brooded at the fire for a while. "I bow to your healing wisdom, then, m'lady." He turned and regarded me with his fascinating eyes. "May I at least know your name?"

"Lynnéa," I replied.

He regarded me steadily. "Lynnéa. A pretty name. Fitting."

I flushed, feeling like I was permanently reddened under his gaze. Lynnéa meant lime blossom in the old language; slightly sweet and fresh, used in medicines, with an underlying tartness. Yes, that probably summed me up perfectly. He was astute, this witcher.

I raised my brow. "And yours, witcher?"

"Geralt," he said simply.

I blinked. "Geralt… of Rivia?" He nodded slowly.

"The White Wolf? The Butcher of Blaviken?" My voice had risen sharply with an undercurrent of hysteria. I had the _Butcher of Blaviken_ in my house?

His face rippled with an unidentifiable emotion and he fixed me in his golden gaze. "I assure you, m'lady, I mean you no harm. You need not fear me."

"Oh. No. Of course not. Not at all," I babbled. He sighed heavily and stared at the fire again.

Slowly my hysteria died and I felt foolish and ashamed of myself. Whatever the tales had claimed he'd done in the past, he was still an injured man, weakened and needing my help. I swallowed and stepped over, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry…" I faltered, and swallowed again "…Geralt."

He shrugged, the muscles under my fingers bunching. "It's no matter."

But I heard the loss and the pain buried in the depths of his voice. It resonated with my own. A wave of empathy surged up within me. "I'm sorry," I whispered again, and squeezed gently.

He looked up at that, his eyes searching mine intently, and then he relaxed. His expression softened and he reached up and covered my hand with his own. He opened his mouth to speak – then stiffened and looked past me towards the front door. I started to turn, puzzled; and then the door shook underneath a series of heavy blows.

"Open up, witch!"


	3. The Witcher and the Widow Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have read the books (or at least the ones available in English) so their concepts will be included from here on out. Hopefully I haven't deviated too much. Any comments at all would be loved!

A/N: I have read the books (or at least the ones available in English) so their concepts will be included from here on out. Hopefully I haven't deviated too much. Any comments at all would be loved!

With thanks again to my beta, Skeasel, who is wonderful.

Today we have some almost-smut and protective!Geralt. Enjoy.

* * *

'

My heart pounded loud enough to rival the pounding at the door.

"Whore! Open up! Open this door!"

I snarled, rage searing incandescently through me, and sprang to the door, flinging it open with such force that it slammed against the wall and almost bounced shut again. The voices ceased abruptly.

"I am not a whore!" I hissed, and the men on my doorstep stepped back uncertainly at my vehemence.

There were two of them, the baker and the wizened old lecher from the stalls, and the reek of cheap alcohol wafted from them in nauseating waves. They glanced at each other, then laughed and advanced on me, pushing me back into the room.

"Sure ya are, witch," slurred the baker, as he reached out with a dirty hand and groped at my breast. I slapped him away, repulsed, and his eyes narrowed. "Bitch!" he shouted, spraying spittle into my face. "Whore! On yer back, where you belong, bitch!" And he swung his arm back and punched me squarely on the jaw.

Pain exploded in my face, my head rang and I found myself on all fours, stunned. The men laughed and swaggered into my house, the baker already pawing at the stays on his trousers. I shrank back, tears in my eyes, but was stopped by a warm bulk behind me. There was a cold slithering, a steely ringing and I looked up at Geralt looming protectively over me, feet solidly planted. The glistening tip of the larger of his two swords pointed unerringly at the baker's throat.

"I suggest you leave the lady be," he rumbled calmly.

The baker stopped short, looking at this new threat. He sneered. "And who might you be, whitey?"

The point of the sword scribed shining, menacing circles through the air, scant inches from the baker's scrawny throat. He swallowed nervously.

"Who I am isn't important. What _is_ important is the fact that you are threatening this lady here." Geralt's voice lowered with menace. "I can't allow that."

The baker took a step back, eyeing the blade warily. "She's naught but a whore. She's nothing to you. Let us have our fun, and then you can have yours." He grabbed his groin suggestively.

I clenched my teeth in anger and got to my feet, balling my fists. "Call me a whore again and I'll slit your throat myself."

He spat at me, leering, and I felt the liquid trickle down my cheek. My stomach turned with revulsion, but before I could do anything Geralt stepped forward, implacable and unyielding as a winter storm, the sword steady in his hand. "Leave. Now."

For a moment the tableau held, then they took one last look at his grim face and fled, trailing their stench and epithets behind them.

I stalked to the door and slammed it shut, swearing. Geralt remained on his feet, but as I turned he sagged and the sword dropped from his fingers, clashing against the stones of the floor. I rushed over and he collapsed onto me. I grunted with his weight, put my arms around him, and steered him over to the bed.

I felt a hot, sticky wetness against my fingers and swore: he'd obviously torn the stitches open.

Turning him around, I laid him face down on the bed and inspected the damage, breathing a quick sigh of relief. Only one of his stitches had torn out, and it was right at the end of the largest gash, close to his spine. It shouldn't be too hard to repair. I fetched a cloth and started cleaning up the blood.

He stirred and turned his head on the mattress to look up at me. "Are you all right?" His gravelly voice reflected only concern.

I smiled through my aching jaw. "I'm fine. Thank you, Geralt."

He raised a hand awkwardly and touched cool fingers to the burning heat on my face. He brushed my cheek gently, and I remembered the spittle that still clung there. My stomach turned. If he hadn't been there…

He cupped my jaw briefly and then his hand dropped and he closed his eyes. "You're welcome."

I fought the absurd urge to pick his hand up again and nestle my face into it; instead busying myself with cleaning up his back. I fetched my sewing kit and threaded the needle again. "This will only hurt for a moment," I promised. He grunted.

Quickly I repaired the offending stitch, wiping down his skin with warm water since I was out of tincture. I smeared some of my new batch of salve over the wounds and watched in satisfaction as he relaxed under my fingers. His breathing slowed and he slipped into sleep again, so I stood up and went about preparing something for dinner.

Angrily, I chopped mutton and vegetables, tossing it all into a pot with some water and flour, and hanging it over the fire. By nightfall it would be cooked, and we could eat something other than bread and meat. I replayed the intrusion in my head over and over. How dared they come here? How dared they force their way into my house, and try to force me? I shuddered as the thought kept repeating in my mind like an unwelcome echo: _if Geralt hadn't been here…_

The afternoon passed slowly. Geralt slept fitfully, and my heart kept stuttering at every noise from outside. As darkness fell my nerves got the better of me, so I brewed a relaxing tea and sat before the fire, sipping it. The warmth soothed my aching head and I eventually relaxed, stretching out on the hearth and basking like a cat in the heat.

I woke with a start to darkness, the fire mere embers before me, and swore under my breath. My stomach grumbled noisily as I worked to build the fire back up again. Then I lit lanterns to brighten the room and checked on the stew, breathing a sigh of relief when I saw it wasn't burnt.

Geralt was still asleep. I bit my lip, then walked over and grasped his shoulder, shaking lightly. He was awake instantly, eyes flashing open and muscles tensing. I recoiled and he relaxed, cat's eyes lowering in the dimness. I knelt beside him.

"Geralt, you need to eat. Let's sit you up."

He nodded and braced himself as I levered him up. He hissed as the new stitch pulled and I held my breath, hoping it wouldn't tear. Eventually he nodded and I stood, pulling him back with me. I led him over to the chair and he sat in it stiffly, leaning forward.

His stomach rumbled loudly as I dished out some stew and I giggled. I placed the plate before him, then sliced some bread and gave him that. He nodded his thanks and then fell to, wolfing it down like he was starving. Well, and he probably was.

While he ate I ladled some out for myself and sat next to him. For a while we sat in companionable silence, the only extra noises the crackle of the fire and the bubble from the pot. When his bowl was empty I gave him more, without prompting, and he smiled briefly at me before devouring it.

I refilled my mug of tea and sat back watching him while I cradled it. Eventually he slowed down and then stopped, patting his stomach which had rounded nicely over the band of his – my husband's – trousers. I caught my gaze wandering lower and jerked it away, hoping he hadn't seen. No such luck, of course, those cat eyes of his seemingly never missed a thing, and he smirked just a little. I blushed and studied the depths of my mug intently.

"They'll be back," he said.

I jerked my head up. "What?"

He regarded me closely. "Those men. They'll be back. Oh, it won't be today, or tomorrow. Maybe not even next week. But they'll be back, and they'll bring their friends, and you may not escape so easily next time, Lynnéa."

I shivered as his deep voice spoke my name, and then the import of his words sank in. I blinked, staring at him. "But… what will I do?"

He shrugged one shoulder lithely. "I'd suggest you leave before they get a chance to raise up a mob. You don't want to be around when the peasantry gets riled up." A shadow crossed over his face and he turned to look at the fire again.

My throat tightened and I felt tears form in my eyes. "But… my house…"

He sighed heavily. "Which is more important to you, m'lady, your house or your life?"

I sniffed. "My life, of course. It's just…" I looked around at my hut; as familiar and contemptible as it was, it was still my home and contained a decade of memories. My husband had made the chair Geralt was sitting in, working over it through the long winter nights. We'd spent mornings cocooned in the warmth of our bed, making love 'til our limbs ached. We'd sorrowed together over each babe that died unborn, lived and laughed and argued and cried here together. He'd died here, wasting away in the summer heat. I'd held his hand as he faded and then I'd buried him out beyond the back door.

But he was gone, and no longer cared about the house, and I had no wish to follow him to the afterlife. I shook myself. "You're right, of course," I murmured, and heaved a sigh. I wiped my eyes. "Well, we can't leave tonight. You're in no condition for a trek, and we'd need to prepare."

His shining eyes were on me. "We'd?"

I blinked and snapped at him tartly. "Surely you don't expect to run off on your own while you're still healing? Witcher you might be, but you're not immortal."

He threw back his head and laughed, a deep rumbling roll of mirth like distant thunder. I watched him laugh, admiring the strong cords of his throat, the muscles that connected to his shoulders, his bare chest with the smattering of hair across it… I swallowed and looked away as his hilarity ceased and he regarded me amusedly.

"Ah, m'lady, I admire a strong woman."

"Yes well." I cleared my throat. "This strong woman is tired, and would like to clean up and have a bath and get to bed." I stared at him expectantly, but he made not the slightest move. I raised an eyebrow and he sat there, looking at me blandly.

I rolled my eyes and got up, picking up dishes and clearing away the remnants of dinner. He folded his arms – carefully – and watched. I grumbled as I pulled the tub out and started filling it again, testing the water. I topped it up with hot water from the fire and turned to face him, hands on my hips. "At least do me the courtesy of turning away!" I demanded.

He smirked and turned in the chair gingerly until he was facing the opposite wall.

Since that was probably the only concession he was going to give, I turned and pulled my dress off, tossing it over the chair, quickly followed by my shift. I bent and dripped some of my soap into the water, stirring with my hand until the scent of ginatia rose and swirled about me.

Geralt sniffed. "Do you make that yourself?"

I looked at him in surprise. He was still facing the other direction, so I relaxed and stepped into the warm water.

"Yes," I replied shortly, splashing water up on my chest and arms.

He shifted in his chair. "You could sell that soap, in a town, you know."

I stopped and looked at him. "Do you think so?"

"I _know_ so. I know the ladies of the town would clamour for it."

I snorted. "I'll just bet you know that," I muttered under my breath. There was a muffled noise from across the room and I looked over at him suspiciously, but he remained facing the wall. I washed my shoulders slowly, thinking.

"I'd need to get set up in a town, a shop or a stall. I'd need a house," I mused. "Connections. Vendors. Hmm."

There was silence for a few minutes as I thought.

"Or you could apprentice yourself to a medic. Or a witch."

I dropped my cloth with a splash. "What?"

"A medic. Or a witch."

"Geralt, be serious. No medic would take me on as an apprentice. And as to a witch…" I shook my head in disbelief.

He shifted in his chair again and his voice sounded almost reluctant. "I… know a healer. She could probably take you on, at least to determine your knowledge. And…" he shifted again uncomfortably "…I know a witch, or two."

I grunted, jealousy raising its ugly head inside me again, and concentrated on retrieving my cloth and deliberately wiping down my arms.

He cleared his throat. "I can help you."

I turned and looked at him. "Help me?"

"If you'd like."

"Geralt, you have already done enough for me. I don't want to put you out."

He turned and met my eyes steadily. "You saved my life, m'lady. I'm not putting myself out."

I stared at him, transfixed, my wet hair plastered to my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I had options. And now… he was offering to help me achieve them? I would be a fool not to accept. "Then… thank you Geralt. I would be grateful for your help."

He smiled at that briefly, his eyes lighting, and then they travelled slowly down from my face. I flushed but remained still, letting his gaze roam across me as I sat in my bathtub. My breathing quickened and my breasts heaved under his scrutiny. His smile widened as he devoured me with his gaze, growing more predatory, and I watched his face defiantly. Finally he raised them to my face again and our eyes met.

"You have beautiful eyes, m'lady."

I raised my brow. "Funny, you weren't looking at my _eyes_ just then, witcher."

His lips twitched and he inclined his head. "Can I help it if I was distracted by your other… assets?"

I barked a short laugh. "No, I guess not. It's entirely my fault then."

"No, m'lady. Never," he breathed huskily. His eyes held my own effortlessly. I fell into them for an age, feeling like I was swimming in a depthless amber ocean. I hung suspended in a golden void, hearing the gentle susurrus of his breath around me, enfolding me. Then he blinked, and the spell evaporated. I flustered, trying futilely to cover myself, and he smiled and shifted in his seat.

I held my breath, hoping he'd come over to me… but instead he turned away again, facing the wall.

I swallowed my disappointment and hurried through the rest of my bath. Somehow it was no longer as enticing as it had been. I stood up, letting the water sluice from me, and stepped out, drying myself on a cloth. I slipped into a clean shift and cleared my throat. "I'm done."

"Good. I'm tired."

 _Me too_ , I thought, but I said nothing. I banked the fire and went over to Geralt, offering him my arm. He grasped it and stood up slowly, pulling on me only slightly. I walked him back over to the bed and helped him down.

"I'll put some more salve on your cuts," I said, and leaned over to get it. He made no noise as I rubbed the cream into his back. The wounds looked much better; even the new stitch was less red than earlier. "You heal quickly," I commented.

He shrugged. "I'm a witcher."

I turned him over slightly and checked the cuts on his face, smoothing more salve into them. The gash on his forehead had nearly completely closed. He watched me as I worked, his breathing deep and even. I sat back and wiped my fingers clean. "All done," I said lightly. "Get some sleep."

I went to stand up and he reached out and grasped my hand. "Thank you, Lynnéa," he said softly. And he brought it up to his lips and kissed it.

I shivered at the sensation, his soft warm lips on my knuckles. I tried to pull back, but his grip was firm. He looked up at me and turned my hand over, exposing the soft inside of my wrist. His thumb caressed my skin, and I flushed, remembering his hand on my breast this morning. He kissed the palm of my hand once, twice; the third time the tip of his tongue flicked against me and I caught my breath. He blinked languidly, golden eyes aglow, and brushed his lips up over my inner wrist. His lips parted and he sucked gently. I gasped. The lines around his eyes crinkled and he circled his tongue over the delicate skin. My eyes closed in a flood of sensuality and I swayed a little where I sat. He rumbled approvingly and tugged gently on my arm, pulling me closer.

I swayed forward, eyes still closed, leaning further and further down until I could feel his warm breath on my face. My lips parted and he chuckled softly, and then his lips were on mine, and oh! The fire where they touched! He burned with an inner heat. He claimed my mouth expertly, running his tongue across the inside of my lips, sucking in my breath, delving beyond my teeth. I was powerless before his onslaught, lost in a wave of unfamiliar sensation. I hadn't felt a man's lips on me in over a year…

His teeth nibbled at my lower lip gently and I whimpered helplessly. His hand left my wrist and cupped my face, thumb brushing over my cheek and fingers tangling in my damp hair. My nerves were on fire, relearning sensations I'd all but forgotten. "Geralt," I whispered, and immediately wished I hadn't as he pulled away and took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he said huskily. "I'm in no condition for this. I shouldn't have…" He stroked my cheek and then let his hand fall, leaving me bereft. He avoided my gaze. "Later, Lynnéa."

I took a deep breath and composed myself. "Of course."

Ruthlessly I quashed both the disappointment and desire that welled within me. I got up and blew out the lanterns, then paused, torn. Should I get into my bed, next to him? Should I sleep on the floor? I chewed on my lip in frustration and paced the floor.

Geralt suffered this in silence until finally he grew annoyed with my hesitation. "Come to bed, Lynnéa. Get some sleep. Just stop shuffling around, for the power's sake."

I steeled myself and clambered into the bed beside him, and pulled up the covers. Settling down on my side, facing the wall; I lay stiffly, keeping a careful distance between us. He sighed and reached around me, pulling me back into the warmth of his chest. "Sleep," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating through me.

And much to my surprise, I did.


	4. The Witcher and the Widow Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There is smut ahead. Many thanks to Skeasel for betaing! Enjoy :)

A/N: There is smut ahead. Many thanks to Skeasel for betaing! Enjoy :)

* * *

'

Morning dawned cool and grey, with the patter of rain on the roof. There was a low rumble of thunder overhead, and the sound of wind gusting through the eaves. I yawned sleepily and snuggled further into the warmth that was behind me, before I realised what – who – it was. Which woke me up abruptly.

His arm was still draped over me. I touched it, but he didn't move. The skin of his forearm was soft and smooth, the hairs fine; entirely not what I was expecting. I bit my lip and eased out from under his arm, letting it drop to the mattress. He snorted a little in his sleep but did not wake.

Asleep, his face was serene. With his golden eyes closed, he looked much like any other man, if more beaten than most. His pale hair fanned out about him, small locks fallen forward over his face, and even his scars seemed gentled by the watery morning light. I fought back the urge to brush his hair from his face, and instead crawled carefully out of bed.

I stretched luxuriously, working the knots out of my back, then slipped on my dress and opened the door, setting my kettles outside to collect the rain. The village streets were empty in the storm, but lights flickered behind windows. I retreated back inside and closed the door on the miserable day.

I built the fire back up, noting I only had about another day's worth of wood. I sighed. Hopefully the rain would let up by tomorrow so I could go cut some more. I sliced some bread and toasted it to a golden brown over the fire, before I dipped it in the remnants of last night's stew and ate. I chewed slowly and thoughtfully, staring into the fire, mulling over all that had happened yesterday. My jaw still ached, but at least none of my teeth seemed loose.

Sighing, I got up and retrieved a kettle and hung it over the fire to boil. While I waited, I got out the flour I'd bought yesterday and set about making bread. The water was well and truly bubbling by the time I'd finished kneading and set the dough on the hearth to rise. I opened the back door and rinsed my hands under the rain, then pulled the kettle from the fire and set it on the table. I made myself a mug of tea and looked around, wondering what I could do next.

My eyes alighted on Geralt's ripped shirt and jerkin. The leathers had dried well over the past day. I walked over and fingered the rents – three clean slices torn into the tough leather. I shivered and wondered what manner of creature did that.

I picked up my sewing kit and sat cross legged before the fire with his shirt in my lap, and started sewing up the slashes. The hut faded out as I worked, concentrating only on my quick, neat stitches. Only the cloth and the thread were real, only the quick silver flickers of my needle, flashing in the firelight. So I was taken completely by surprise when a hand fell on my shoulder.

I yelped and jumped, stabbing the needle into my thumb, and then swore. There was an amused chuckle from behind me and then Geralt sat down in my chair, leaning back carefully and crossing his legs at the heels. I sucked my injured thumb, tasting the coppery tang of blood, and glared at him. "Couldn't you have said something first?" I asked accusingly around the digit.

He blinked. "I did. I said your name. Twice. You didn't hear me."

"Oh. Well." I cleared my throat. "I apologize then."

He waved a hand dismissively and turned his attention to the bread. "No matter," he replied absently as he sliced the last of the loaf. I gestured at the stew and he helped himself.

I watched, chagrined, as he cleaned the pot out. I'd forgotten how much men ate…

I realised I was staring at him as he ate. I shook myself and continued the repair of his shirt while he chewed and swallowed behind me. Before too long it was done and I held it up to inspect my handiwork.

"As good as new," I announced, pleased with myself. I tossed the shirt to Geralt, and he caught it easily. I pulled over his jerkin and smoothed it out on my lap. "I don't suppose you want to tell me how this happened?" I asked as I fingered the rents in the leather.

"Cemetaurs," he said tersely, stabbing the bread knife into the tabletop. "Four of them."

I felt my jaw drop as I looked at him. Cemetaurs? _Four_ cemetaurs? Sweet Melitele…

He shifted uncomfortably under my gaze. Tiny slivers of wood gouged up under his hands.

"Wait… you mean there's four cemetaurs near here? Melitele… we have to get out! We have to warn everyone!"

He held up his hand, cutting off my incipient panic. "They're dead, Lynnéa, it's all right."

"Dead?"

He nodded slowly.

I exhaled and relaxed somewhat, and picked up my needle again. "Were they your contract?"

He grunted. "I don't have a contract at the moment, actually. I was just passing through here."

"Where were you going?"

"Somewhere else."

I frowned and stabbed the leather with my needle. "You can trust me, you know. I'll not betray your secrets."

His lips twitched. "I know."

"So where were you going?"

"Somewhere…" I glared at him. He coughed and continued: "I wasn't sure. I was just going. I just got on my horse and… left."

I paused, needle mid air. "You have a horse?"

A quick flash of sorrow passed over his face. "Had. She died when the cemetaurs attacked. They ripped her throat out first, then turned on me. Poor beast." He sighed.

"I'm sorry, Geralt."

He grunted. "At least she never knew what got her."

We sat in silence for a while. I continued repairing the torn leather, pushing my needle through with difficulty and hoping it wouldn't snap, while he turned the knife in his hands. I cleared my throat and the knife stilled.

"So does that mean all your belongings are still on your horse?"

"Possibly. Or they may have been taken by now."

"Where were you when they attacked?"

He blinked, thinking. "About a half hours' ride north of here. In a small clearing in the curve of a stream, surrounded by old oak trees."

I nodded, I knew the place. It was where the village had buried its dead for generations past, though no grave markers remained. I tapped my lip thoughtfully.

"And you're sure it's safe there now?"

"I believe so."

"Mm." I tucked the needle back into my sewing kit and stood up, dusting my hands off. He looked up at me suspiciously, but I avoided his eyes. I folded his jerkin up neatly, rents halfway mended, and placed it onto the table. Then I got out my boots, slipping them on and tying the laces. I took my shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders, draping a loose cowl to pull up over my head to protect from the rain. It wasn't until I stepped to the back door to get the axe that he spoke up.

"No."

I froze with my hand on the latch. "No?"

"I can't allow you to go out there. It's too dangerous."

"But you said the cemetaurs were dead?"

"Cemetaurs are not all you have to fear out in the woods, little widow." His voice was low and ominous and chills ran down my spine. I shook myself.

"I'll be careful. I have my axe," I said lightly as reached out and retrieved it. I patted it, trying to belie my fear. His stare saw through the lie, however.

"Lynnéa…" he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. I stared at him. "Stubborn woman," he muttered under his breath. "Fine. But you run, and run fast, if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary. Anything at all. You run straight here. Don't stop. Don't look back. Don't stay to fight. Understand?"

"I understand."

His face was stony, eyes molten in the stormlight. I shivered. "I understand, Geralt. I'll run. I promise." And I turned and slipped out the door, closing it before I gave myself the chance to change my mind.

I set off through the fields to the road, berating myself in my mind. _Fool woman_ , I thought as I negotiated clods and brambles. _You're going to get yourself killed one of these days…_

Though, I realised as I looked about at the deserted landscape, it was the perfect time for someone to be skulking about, trying not to be noticed by their neighbours. The clouds were dark and low overhead, and a cold, heavy rain pelted down, obscuring visibility. There was absolutely no-one to be seen. Nobody else was stupid enough to be running around in this weather.

I fastened my shawl securely around my head, shivering as the cold rain blew into my face. Clutching the handle of my axe for comfort, I trudged off down the road.

The path through the woods was dark and shrouded, gloomy and desolate. The wind gusted through the trees as I approached the clearing, making them creak and sway. Every time a branch whipped against another I jumped, fearing I was about to be set upon by ghouls or bandits. I paused at the edge of the trees, looking ahead intently. Nothing moved. The body of the horse lay in the centre of the clearing, neck pitifully askew, chewed and dismembered: surrounded by four hacked bodies, grey and revolting, with gaping maws and powerful limbs. Cemetaurs. I shuddered and closed my eyes.

I shivered in the cold, picked up my resolve and stepped into the open, gripping my axe. I scanned all around me as I hesitantly approached the horse's body, my heart in my throat. Nothing moved, save the wind-wracked trees. Rain gusted into my face as I reached the carcass and the wind blew my shawl back. I let it be: I was already hopelessly soaked. I stooped down to examine the body.

There was a subtle whiff of putrefaction in the air, kept small by the chill and the gusting wind, for which I was grateful. I could see the marks of powerful teeth in the remaining flesh and shuddered. The horse's barrel was shredded, ribs cracked and splintered. The remnants of a saddle lay under the body, but there were no bags to be seen. I crouched down to examine the saddle, wondering if there was anything important about it, any clues as to my witcher's doings.

The saddle was plain, made for long distance riding. The leather was of good quality, evident even after exposure to the elements for two days. There were no maker's marks on the saddle flaps or cantle. Gingerly I reached down and lifted the skirt – nothing underneath. I sat back on my haunches and looked around.

An oddly angular shape under the tangled, fanned tail caught my eye. I leant over and brushed the coarse hair back. Underneath was a rigid pouch of some sort, square in shape, with a toggle closing it. I flipped the toggle and peered inside and my herbwife's heart soared – inside were bundles of leaves, pressed flowers, odd little stoppered vials of liquid that churned murkily in the gloom, strange teeth, twisted roots still holding clumps of earth, and the bark of trees. I laughed gleefully to myself, then sobered quickly, looking around. Nothing stirred.

The pouch was attached to a broad leather strap that appeared to have been sliced through. At one end was a looped affair containing a single glass potion bottle. I wondered what was in it.

I fingered the cut edges of the leather gravely, shivering as cold fingers of water wormed their way down my spine. Though the horse had definitely been set upon by something that used teeth and claws, this looked more like it had been cut than torn. Either Geralt had been set upon by more than just monsters, or someone had been here after the fight.

I swallowed, and swiftly bundled the pouch and its strap up in my shawl, securing it around my waist. I searched the rest of the clearing quickly, but there was nothing else there. I gave the cemetaur bodies a glance over, but couldn't bring myself to actually touch them. They certainly _looked_ like they had been slashed with a sword. Gaping wounds rent their bellies and throats. One had been beheaded. I wondered at the power necessary to behead monsters such as these…

I shook myself like a wet dog. Time to go; there was nothing else to be seen here. I gathered my skirts and stepped over the bodies, heading back to the road at a careful pace, trying not to slip. As I reached the far edge of the circle of trees a crunching noise made me pause. Slowly, I turned around, my eyes wide and staring. There, in the clearing behind me, a large figure hunched over the corpse of the horse. Powerful limbs had pulled the rib bones apart and it was crunching on them, splintering the bones with its wicked teeth. I watched in horrified fascination as its long, thin tongue darted up along the bone, collecting marrow. It smacked its lips in obvious enjoyment and reached down to tear another from the body below it.

Its skin was ruddy compared to the bodies of the fallen monsters around it, and it was smaller and less powerfully built. I recognised it instantly.

"Graveir," I breathed in dread.

It looked up at that, ears twitching as horrid fluids dripped from its maw. It scanned the clearing and I shrank back into the shadow of the trees, sure it would see me. If it did, it did not come after me, but rather turned back to its feast. I supposed a horse and four cemetaurs were a better meal than one wet, scrawny woman.

I backed out of the clearing slowly, feeling my way behind me, unwilling to take my eyes off the monster for even a moment. When I reached the road, I hitched up my skirts to my knees and ran, as fast as I'd ever run before, as fast as if the Wild Hunt itself were behind me. The wind wailed behind me, urging me on. I shied at every shadow I passed, sure I was about to be overcome by monsters. The twigs that clutched at my hair as I passed were the claws of beasts, the sods I tripped over were their hands trying to pull me down. The rain was heavy in my face, blinding me, and flashes of lighting and rumbles of thunder made me cringe and duck. By the time I reached the outskirts of the village I was sobbing, my heart felt like it would burst, and I had a stitch that dragged me to the side as I ran. But I kept going until I reached my back door, bursting it open and slamming it shut behind me. I leaned back against the door and panted, my eyes closed, recovering.

Gradually my breathing eased and I opened my eyes. Geralt was still sitting at the table, looking at me with a raised brow. He had one of my father's books in his hands. I said nothing. After all, I'd just gone through his satchel of herbs, back in the clearing.

I dropped my axe and walked over to him, dripping. Untying my shawl, I dumped it on the table, avoiding the precious book. "Here," I said between sobbing, hitching breaths. "This was all I could find."

All of a sudden I realised that I was shockingly cold, and wet through, and I'd just seen a monster and run several miles in uncertain light and a storm. My legs gave way and I sat down hard on the floor, knocking myself breathless.

Geralt started up in concern and laid his hand on my cheek. "Lynnéa, you're frozen. Quickly, get those wet things off."

I fumbled at the laces of my dress, my hands made clumsy from the cold. The more I tried, the more tangled they got, until I started crying from the frustration of it all. I tugged at them futilely until his hand covered mine, halting me.

"Stop, Lynnéa. Let me."

And he knelt before me, his long fingers picking over the knots until he had them undone. I watched him work at the laces, watched his strong, scarred fingers deftly untangling them as my teeth chattered and my nose dripped and I shivered with cold, and remembered the head of the cemetaur that had been neatly separated from its body. _His_ hand had done that. The same hand that had worked through the water-soaked knots in my stays. That now gently tugged at my dress to pull it up over my head. I stared up at him in horror.

His lips thinned as he looked down at me. "I knew this was a bad idea," he muttered. "Come on, Lynnéa. Lift your arms up."

Mutely, I did as he bade, my eyes fixed on him. He pulled the sopping dress up over my head and threw it into the corner. It made a dull splat as it hit the floor, and I shuddered, my feverish thoughts imagining the sound of bodies impacting with grassy ground, rent and bereft of life.

He pulled at the hem of my shift, lifting it up over my body. My wet skin twitched as it met the air. I looked down curiously – my pale skin was blue with the cold, nearly purple. While a distant part of me knew that was a bad sign, it was buried under the cacophony of impressions that whirled about me now, all centred on the witcher in front of me, who was patiently divesting me of my soaked clothing.

Once he had the shift off he threw it on top of my dress and I winced at the sodden thud. Laboriously, he got himself to his feet and went to my armoire, pulling out a thick soft piece of cloth I'd been saving for a winter dress. He coaxed me up to my feet, pulling when I wouldn't move. When I was finally standing, he wrapped the cloth around me, pulling me into his chest while he rubbed my arms and back briskly. I shuddered, pressed in close against him. I was cold, cold as the grave, and all I could see was death…

Gradually warmth started seeping back into my limbs and my shuddering lessened. With his arms around me he reached up and started wringing the water out of my hair, then ran his fingers through the tangles, working his way up from the ends. My hair was something I'd always considered my one glory, a long wealth of locks reaching down my back, burnished brown when dry. I'd always loved having it touched, and even now that was the case. His fingers were soothing and I slowly relaxed as he ran them through the length of my hair over and over again. I sighed and closed my eyes, resting my head against his chest.

"Now would you like to tell me what that was all about?"

Geralt's voice was a deep rumble that I felt more than heard, as powerful as the thunder that still boomed through the sky outside. Far from being ominous, though, it was comforting. I sighed.

"Graveir," I said softly. "In the clearing. Saw me."

His hands stilled their motions briefly and his arms tightened around me. "And you ran?"

I nodded fervently against his chest. "Good girl," he said.

I felt vaguely insulted. Girl? I was no girl! I was a woman, wed for ten years, to a husband now dead. I opened my mouth to protest but then his hands were on my shoulders. He drew me back, looking fiercely down at me with his golden eyes, and shook me. My head bobbed on my neck, my teeth clashed shut and I gaped up at him, feeling rather like the rabbit caught in the hawk's stare.

"Don't you dare do that again, Lynnéa. I warned you! I told you it was dangerous!" And he shook me again.

"You're no witcher to be taking on monsters. Foolish woman!" And again.

I wholeheartedly agreed with him. I _was_ foolish. I hoped to never see another monster again. But I was getting a bit sick of the shaking. I opened my mouth to protest but he swooped down and fastened his lips to mine, cutting off the words before I could say them.

My legs, already shaky, weakened further and I sagged in his embrace. His mouth was terribly warm against my chill lips and he plundered me ruthlessly. I whimpered as he clutched me to him and sucked on my tongue. My hands spread across his chest, approving of the sheer breadth of him, tracing the ridges of muscle across his pectorals. His mouth on mine was feverish, desperate. I wondered at that, briefly, in the quiet corner of my mind that sat back and watched what was happening; then gave myself over to his kiss.

He reached down and scooped me up easily, despite my wordless protests, and carried me over to the bed. Instead of laying me down on it, however, he turned around and sank down on the mattress himself, holding me close with his mouth fastened to mine. I sprawled in his lap with my hands wandering across his torso, my back curved as he pressed me to him.

The blanket around me had fallen open as we moved, and his warm hand snaked its way under it. I gasped as his fingers found my taut nipple and plucked it, and he chuckled. His kiss deepened and I responded ardently, clasping him to me, while his skillful fingers played. His lips were firm over mine, his tongue strong and forceful. The rough stubble of his chin rubbed against me as we kissed and I shivered at his undeniable maleness. My hand found its way into his hair and I tangled my fingers through it, pulling gently. He groaned slightly and I smiled.

He moved his mouth from mine and kissed down my neck, his tongue trailing exquisitely over my throat. I shuddered as he sucked on my collarbone and felt his lips curve against me. He moved his mouth lower but stopped and hissed as the stitches in his back caught. Swiftly he shifted, leaving me lying on my back under him, blinking in bewilderment. His eyes were molten embers as he looked down at me, and then he lowered his mouth to my breast and I moaned.

Softly, he suckled on my hard peak until it ached and I squirmed beneath him. I ran my hands through his hair, delighting in the sensuous feel against my fingers. He flicked his tongue over my nipple and then his warm mouth left it, standing proudly in the cool air. I murmured incoherently until he took the other one into his mouth, nibbling and pulling at it with his teeth. My back arched and I hissed with pleasure and pressed him into me.

He smiled up at me, eyes knowing and decadent, and I groaned. His hand left my hip and wandered lower, teasingly, making my hips twitch. His fingers brushed over the tuft of hair between my legs and I shuddered. He kept his eyes fastened on mine as he rubbed the folds of my sex gently; rubbed until I rubbed myself back against him, and then he slowly slid a finger into my slick wetness, brushing over my nub.

I bit my lip and closed my eyes as he stroked, shivering as he pressed against me. My eyes slid open and I looked down at him. His gaze was still fixed on me and I moaned at the sheer carnality in them. He bit at my nipple with his sharp teeth, fingers still working busily, and I panted and squirmed. "Geralt," I breathed, afraid he'd stop again, afraid he'd leave me bereft and shaking and alone. He paused and my hips bucked in protest. "Don't stop…"

He merely blinked; golden eyes intent, pupils narrowed and fixed on me. His fingers circled and I writhed in time, my pants growing faster.

His mouth left my breast and he shifted himself up and over me, his hips rubbing into mine. I could feel his hard maleness through the fabric of his trousers, hot and strong. I reached down and fumbled with the fastenings, pulling the fabric down and freeing him. He shifted his hips, kicking them off, and then he was between my legs, which had automatically wrapped around him.

He paused then, maddeningly. I could feel the heat emanating from him; feel him nudging against my sex. I twitched my hips, wanting him inside me, but he held back. His golden eyes held mine and I looked into them desperately. "Geralt, I'm a widow, not a virgin, for the love of Melitele…"

He smirked a little, insufferable male, and then ever so slowly entered me. My mouth opened and I whined as he filled me. An excruciating pleasure that shook my entire body gripped me and I thrashed in its throes. All the while he held himself over me, impaling me. Eventually my heart slowed and I focused on him again, blushing. He lowered his mouth to mine and claimed it as he thrust the rest of the way into me, muffling my shriek.

He set up a steady, demanding rhythm, pounding into me while I rocked under him, meeting him thrust for thrust. I brought my knees up and gripped his buttocks, feeling the muscles bunch and release under my fingers, digging my nails in. He groaned into my mouth and I clawed at him again. His breathing grew ragged and sweat dripped from his face onto mine. I arched upwards and licked it from his cheeks, my tongue scraping on his stubble, and he shuddered, sending delicious tremors down his body and into mine. His fingers clenched on my shoulders and his thrusts grew faster and more insistent. He buried his face into my shoulder and then convulsed with a hoarse cry, shaking against me. I felt the hot spurt of his seed inside me, the warmth burning in the pit of my belly and spreading to suffuse through me. I clutched him to me, stroking his tangled hair softly, as our breathing subsided and he relaxed.

I turned my head and kissed his forehead and he rumbled wordlessly.

"Witcher," I whispered, as his golden eyes closed and he settled comfortably against me.

"Widow," he responded in his inimitable voice.

And I smiled and dozed off with my witcher still buried inside me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: DA2 is currently owning my soul and stifling my muse.
> 
> Love and hugs to Skeasel for beta-ing this for me.

I awoke to darkness and quiet. The storm had ceased, and I lay idly peaceful and languid in the nest of my bed. I felt both empty and filled, aching and soothed. And sticky.

I reached out, but I was alone, with not even the memory of his warmth beside me. I sat up and looked around, my eyes straining in the shadows. The fire had burnt back to embers, a sullen red glow that only vaguely illuminated the room.

Pulling the blanket around my shoulders, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up, wincing at the protest of muscles long unused, a purely feminine ache. Despite the pain, I smiled to myself in remembrance.

Barefoot, I padded over to the bench and fumbled in the darkness for the lantern and striker. A few quick sparks had it alight and a mellow pool of light brightened the room. It was only then that I realised Geralt was kneeling motionless before the fire, shirtless and feet bare. I stood, stupidly holding the lantern which was rapidly heating between my fingers, and admired the planes of his back, the way his hair fell over his shoulders, and the smooth clean lines of his torso.

The lantern glass grew hotter and my fingertips burnt and I dropped it to the table with a clatter and a hiss. He shifted back on his haunches and got himself to his feet in a fluid motion only slightly hitched by his injuries. In the light of the lantern he was palely golden, face shadowed and obscure. I sucked on my injured fingers and contemplated him. He stood in silence and let me.

Eventually I couldn't bear it any longer. "Geralt…"

He didn't shift but I felt his attention focus on me. It was electric.

"I ah… about…"

He folded his arms.

"I, that is, we… I want… we should…"

As I stuttered and stammered I could feel my face growing hotter with my awkwardness. And still he said nothing, did nothing. I couldn't even see if he was smirking, though I felt he was. I wanted to kick him in the shins, just to make him react.

Eventually I spluttered into silence, gave up and shrugged. "Hungry?"

His lips twitched and he nodded once. Infuriating man.

But as I turned away to fetch something out of the pantry, still draped in my blanket, he caught me close and settled a swift, warm kiss on my lips, his hand sliding under the cloth and delving to my bare skin, rousing all the nerves I'd thought settled. I gasped and pressed myself against him. My blanket dropped to the floor. Food was forgotten for the moment, in favour of other fare.

Over the next few days we settled into a comfortable routine. I learnt that Geralt rarely slept. He would exhaust me with his attentions and I would fall asleep, sated and safe in the circle of his arms. When I awoke he would invariably be out of bed, meditating before the fire, or pouring over my few books. He seemed indefatigable. He wore me out with his sheer presence.

I grew to know him intimately, physically at least. The curve of his spine, the intricate patterns of the many scars carved into his flesh. The scent and taste of his skin. The hard ridges of muscle that defined his belly. I was fascinated by his hair and would spend long hours playing with it while I sat behind him. I would stare enraptured into his eyes, studying the intricacies held within. It was his otherness that I found the most attractive. I am not sure that he quite knew what to make of that, being that it was his otherness that usually marked him for derision and scorn.

He defied all my limited knowledge of men, though admittedly this was mainly gained through first my father and then my husband, both of whom probably were not 'normal' in the strictest definition of the word; and completely set any notions of witchers I'd had on their head. He was unobtrusive, and yet he was always aware of everything that was happening. He'd cock his head, and then I'd hear someone walk past outside. He'd look up, and I'd feel that the wind had changed direction. It was uncanny. By the same token, I always knew where he was. I was attuned to him like a needle to a lodestone.

He was thorough in his loving, demanding and insistent. He was not entirely considerate, but he always ensured I achieved my own release. I had the distinct impression he enjoyed seeing me lost in the throes of passion. And yet he rarely ever let his own pleasure consume him. He constantly tried to distance himself from his emotions, though I knew they were there, running deep and still under his impassive face. I became determined to crack his stoic façade, to make his witcher mask slip and reveal the passions underneath.

He was clean and quiet, graceful and calm. Not boorish like the men of the village, though perhaps that was more due to the lack of availability to be so. He rarely spoke, but I hungered for his voice and so tried to encourage him to speak as often as I could. We would have long slow conversations – regaling each other with stories. He would tell me little of his witcher's life, despite my pleas, but would happily talk about cities he'd visited, towns he'd been to. He adored poker, I discovered, and was considered the keen opponent. He'd participated in fistfights in taverns for money, and grinned slightly when I expressed disapproval of this. He was by turns depreciatingly humorous and deeply philosophical when he wanted to be. He was, at the least, considerate enough to not flaunt his many conquests in his tales. In return I told him about my childhood and my father, about my meeting my husband and our elopement against my father's wishes. He held me when I described their deaths and kissed the tears from my eyes. Then he drove the sorrow from me in a more immediate manner, leaving me breathless and exhausted but no longer unhappy.

He could cook – after a fashion – and his knowledge of herbs was both more extensive and more limited than mine. He asked to appropriate my last two bottles of vodka and brewed himself some healing potions with them, adding the herbs I'd recovered from the clearing. I was unbearably curious about his techniques, but he could not explain much to me and was clearly uncomfortable with my questioning him. He'd memorised formulae, and made his potions solely from these tested recipes. He did not experiment, did not create anything new. I surmised his methods were part of witcher lore, and did not delve too deeply.

He downed one of the potions he'd brewed, and his back healed amazingly quickly after that, instantaneously almost, leaving only scarring and the now superfluous stitches behind. I picked the stitches from his skin, smiling in amusement as he quivered and flinched beneath me, much like a horse bothered by flies on a hot day. Then he started to work to regain his flexibility and strength. I watched him stretch and bend on the floor, watched the various contortions he put his body through, and was consumed by desire for him. I would teasingly run a hand across his chest, back or stomach while he balanced, or stroke the lines of his hard muscles as he performed whatever series of movements he was currently doing. I would kiss along his jaw, lick down his chest and suckle on him. My fingers would delve beneath the waistband of his trousers. I would tickle him, lick him in sensitive places: all in a vain attempt to make him falter and gasp. He rarely did, so intent was his focus. Once he'd finished, however, he would catch me up and take me hard and fast, growling under his breath while I cried out in delight, and I knew that I'd affected him after all.

He snuck out at night while I was asleep and pilfered firewood from my neighbours' caches. Once he stole an entire side of mutton. I found it in my pantry in the morning when it definitely hadn't been there the night before, and even in silence and with his back to me he seemed far too smug as he knelt before the fire. I rolled my eyes and cooked it and together we savoured the taste of his ill-gotten gains. I firmly believed that never had mutton tasted so good.

He was unfailingly polite, and obviously used to much better than what I had to offer. I would look around at the inside of my hut: at the worn furniture, the shabby walls, at the rapidly emptying pantry, all the trappings of borderline poverty, and cringe. But then he'd sweep me up in his arms and burn me with his kisses and I'd forget everything except the immediate pleasure to be found in his strong, hard body. It was only after I'd descended from whatever new dizzying heights he'd taken me to that the spectre of who and what he was would creep over me again.

In many ways he was the ideal person to be shut inside a small house with. It was an idyllic span of days, restful and invigorating, a brief time of peace before the world turned against us. Against me.

The morning I woke to the steely slither of grindstone against tempered metal was the morning I realised I was hopelessly in love. I rolled over, alone in my bed as usual, and watched him intently drawing the stone over the blade. His hawk's gaze was focused and intent, his movements displaying utter control. The muscles in his arms and back rippled as he sharpened the blade to shining lethality. He was imperfectly, strangely beautiful and my entire being clenched with a sharp, inarticulate longing.

Tears formed in my eyes and I berated myself angrily, for I was under no illusions. He was a witcher, a man who went his way alone, who took his pleasures frequently and fleetingly wherever he could find them. His life was a constant risk, a careful wending of the paths between life and death. He was forever only one quick sword stroke, one cruel claw away from annihilation. Oh, I could hope that he cared at least a little for me; but if he did it was a caring born only of necessity and close quarters. I did not think he had room in his heart for love.

I buried my head and railed at the unfairness of it all from the safety of my blankets. I swore at the goddess for allowing this to happen, for making me realise that my life was not yet over, for throwing him into my path and making me burn when he was near. But Melitele did not answer me. My pillow was well dampened before I ceased my tantrum, wiping from my face the tears that had escaped my eyes. I tried to be practical. I resolved to make the most of what I had, to treasure each moment so that in the years to come I could pull out the memories of him and keep them shiny and fresh in the halls of my mind. I wondered how long my resolve would last.

I wondered how many other women sat silent on a cold winter's night; either next to a husband they did not love or alone, with only their memories of Geralt to keep them warm.

I wondered if one day I would be a bright, treasured memory for _him_ , brought out when he was alone to keep the dark and the cold at bay.

I wondered how loudly my heart would break when he inevitably left.

Consequently, I spent most of the day in a melancholy mood, completing my chores in silence. I caught Geralt eyeing me several times over the course of the day, but he said nothing, and neither did I.

I prepared supper as normal, and we ate in silence. After the meal was done and I started to clear the table, he caught my hand and pulled me into his lap. He pulled the knot out of my hair and let it cascade down my back, running his fingers through its length. I relaxed into him, resting my head on his chest, listening to the strong, sure beat of his heart. I grew drowsy from his slow, calm strokes and nestled contentedly into him, hoping to soak up as much of him as I could.

Gradually his fingers grew to be more caressing than relaxing, drifting down my spine and back up again, delicate touches at odds with his strength and masculinity, sending shivers coursing through me. I roused and nuzzled into him, rubbing my cheek over his chest, delighting in the feel of his warm skin under the rough fabric of his shirt.

He wove his fingers through my hair, cradling the base of my skull, and gently tipped my head back. I looked up at him, at his smooth, resolute face, his strange, shining eyes, and wondered briefly what was going on behind them. Then he bent his head and kissed me, softly and tenderly, and rational thought ceased.

Our lovemaking that night was slow and languorous: an unhurried exploration of each other, a hazy blur of feather light touches that he spread over me as insubstantial as gossamer and which blazed like wildfire across my skin. It was a slow climb into ecstasy where I remembered little more than the caress of his hands, his breath heating my skin, his taste on my tongue, the sensation of him filling me completely. When it was over, when our peaks had passed and we'd recovered, we lay in a quiescent tangle of limbs amongst the rumpled bedsheets. He started speaking, words in the Elder Speech, incomprehensible but poignant in his low, deep voice.

 _"Lynnéa, elaine, esseath en blath, en aine vente dhu. Squaess me va cáemme. Vatt'ghern a n'te en'ca minne. Ess'tuath deireadh, en esse dice'en va faille. N'ess a agerr. N'ess a tearth. Mir'me a'baeth, Lynnéa. Dearme, leede, dearme."_ *

I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep as he continued, lulled by the comforting, soothing rumble of his voice, and dreamt of safety and security and the thunder of a storm while I was warm inside.

Flames and shouting woke us, the stench of smoke making me cough as I started out of bed. For once Geralt had slept with me, and was caught as I was, naked and unprepared.

I scrambled out of my blankets, panic causing them to animate and grip my legs, dragging me down. I fell heavily to the floor, bruising my knees, while Geralt sprang up unhindered and crossed to the window. Whatever he saw beyond made him swear sulphurously under his breath, and then, ominously, he was dragging on his old witcher clothes, speedily tightening laces and settling the leather. It settled onto him like a second skin and he looked deadly and comfortable.

Fear gripped my heart in its strong fist. I fought my way out of the blanket and struggled into the dress that I'd abandoned mere hours earlier. I sat on the hard wooden planks and pulled on my boots, jamming my toes in and frantically tying the laces: already the air was growing close and hot and the smoke was thickening. My eyes stung and started to water as I stumbled to my feet and started throwing supplies into the blanket I'd dropped – food, bottles, clothes, my sewing kit and herbs. I dithered, trying to decide what to take. Geralt fastened his swords to his back and watched my frantic scurrying for a moment before he clicked his tongue in annoyance, strode over to me, and gripped my upper arm hard, jolting me from my panic.

"Leave it," he said harshly, his face impassive. "It's lost."

I struggled against him momentarily but his grip was like iron. Sparks started falling from the thatched roof and I gave up, sagging. I nodded dumbly and he released me, then strode over to the door, throwing it open.

The babble of voices outside ceased and only the slowly growing crackle of fire could be heard as he stood and faced what was outside. Hurriedly I bundled the blanket up into a sling and tied it across my shoulders, then moved to stand behind him, peering around his bulk.

It seemed the whole village had gathered to burn us out. People I'd known for a decade were now unrecognisable, faces twisted and contorted by fear, hatred and suspicion. At my appearance the shouting started again and they brandished their hoes, scythes, pitchforks and torches at me.

"There she is! There is the witch! The whore! Thief! Burn her! Burn the whore! Burn the witch!"

On and on it went, a hateful cacophony that echoed and compounded inside my head until I wanted to scream with it all.

I think I whimpered, quailing under the assault of sheer malice and spite directed against me. Geralt glanced down at me, and his normally emotionless face became a stony mask, his eyes bleak, promising death and pain. He stepped forward, drawing their attention.

"Enough," was all he said, but the single word was a physical attack, turning the hate of the mob back against them.

I saw a few of them actually take a step back, but then they bunched in together for support and their aggression surged.

"The witcher!" hissed a familiar detestable voice, my old friend the baker. "Filthy abomination! Consorting with the witch! See how she even now flaunts his mark? Whore! Kill him! Kill them both!"

A smouldering ember landed on my shoulder and I slapped at it, my palm stinging. Looking back inside, I saw that the roof over the bed was well ablaze. I crowded forward into Geralt and he shifted subtly to the side.

Gratefully I breathed in the cool night air and looked around at the mob arrayed against me – people who I'd lived with for so many years, people I'd laughed and cried with, cooked for, made syrups and poultices to ease their coughs and aching joints, people who had held me while I grieved over my babes and husband. That they'd betrayed me, that they hated me so now – enough to wish me dead – was incomprehensible to me. I looked at them, at their sweaty, ugly faces; their dirty skin and unkempt hair; their blackened teeth and boils and disfigurements; and suddenly I hated them back. I hated them all with a passion I hadn't felt ever before in my life. I wanted them dead. I wanted to be the one to kill them.

I stared at them, my hatred consuming me, and focused it on the baker. My fists clenched and I snarled. He stared at me. I must have looked a sight, like the witch they claimed me to be – face pale, eyes reddened, hair tangled and dress askew.

The baker levelled his torch at me, dangerously close, and sneered. Geralt shifted beside me: he was on his toes, coiled for movement, his hand curled and fingers flexed. I found myself hoping the baker would do something, just so Geralt would strike him down.

Hefting his torch, the baker took a step closer and thrust it into my face. I felt the searing heat of the pitch and the flames and recoiled. He laughed in satisfaction. "See! The witch fears fire! Burn her! Burn her!"

Wiping my face, I leaned forward and bared my teeth at him. "You bastard," I hissed. "I'll see you dead. I hate you. Would that I _were_ a witch so I could curse you all here where you stand."

He crowed triumphantly. "See! She admits it!" He stepped forward again, brandishing his torch so close I could feel my hair shrivel in its heat. He reached out with his other hand and gripped my hair, loose about my shoulders, wrenching my head painfully askew on my neck. Tears sprang to my eyes at the sudden pain and I blinked them back furiously. "I'll see you dead, witch," he snarled, the reek of his breath heavy in my face. "After I fuck you like the whore you are."

There was a silvery flash, a momentarily unbearable drag on my neck, and the torch dropped to the ground, sputtering against the earth. A warm, wet rain with a heavy metallic tang pattered on my face and there was a shocked intake of breath from the mob. I heard a dull thump as the baker's limp body hit the ground, slack and heavy, face forever frozen in lifeless malevolence. Geralt shook the blood from his blade and stepped forward, righteous and menacing. The crowd shrank back from him, their mood suddenly changed from hatred to fear.

Blood dribbled down my cheeks and I blinked slowly. I hadn't even seen him move.

"Leave. Now."

He was one man against a mob, but he faced them. He stared at them all, holding them, until they broke under his gaze and the awful promises it held. He held their miserable, pathetic lives in his hand and on the edge of his sword, and they knew it. The fringes of the crowd started melting away, figures disappearing into the dark one by one, until only the core of the mob remained. They bunched together defensively, like sheep before the wolf. He stared them down, a lone figure framed by the light of my burning house, terrible and relentless in the dark; until finally their nerve broke and they too slunk back into the shadows.

He turned to face me, eyes glittering. "Let's go," he said, and strode away, sheathing his sword.

I looked around at the empty village, turned my back on my past, and followed the witcher away.

 

* Rough translation only. "Lynnéa, beautiful, you are a flower, a light in this darkness. Forgive me for what will happen. A witcher does not ask for love. It will end, and I will say goodbye. Do not grieve. Do not be afraid. Only kiss me, Lynnéa. Sleep, lover, sleep."


	6. Chapter 6

Away from the fire and the familiarity of the village the night was ominous and black. A cold wind blew through the trees: leaves rustling forebodingly, branches creaking as they rubbed together. The shadows there were deeper, darker than any I'd seen before, thick with portents and regret; while at my back I fancied I could still feel the flare of heat from the flames of my life. I shivered as I walked, instinctively shying away from the shadows, my eyes fixed on Geralt's broad back. He led the way unerringly into the darkness.

On a small rise I turned to view the village for the last time. The flames from my burning hut licked the night sky, a thick column of smoke rising into the air to be shredded by the night winds, dissipating into the darkness. I felt numb. Hollow. Inside that blazing shell, my entire life had just burnt away. The whole past ten years and more of my life: gone in a moment's vindictiveness and hate. My wedding dress, gone. My father's legacy, gone. The fire stole from me the last memories of my husband, the last trappings of our life together, the last reminders I had of an existence that had mattered to me.

There was a creak of leather and Geralt came up behind me, resting his gloved hands on my shoulders. "Come, Lynnéa," he said softly in his deep, gravely voice.

"Mm," I replied absently, intent on the fire.

He squeezed my shoulders gently and made to move away. All at once I was afflicted with a sudden fear: that he'd leave me and I'd be on my own, left with nothing to my name, out in the dark, prey to monsters and bandits. My hands flew up and fastened over his, holding him in place.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He froze behind me, hesitating, and then cleared his throat. "It was my fault this happened. Nothing to thank me for," he replied gruffly. He slid his hands out from under mine and stepped away. "Come. We've a long way to go."

I sighed and turned from the glow of the fire, blinking and blinded with the after-images of flames dancing through the night. Geralt strode off, setting a swift pace along the path, and I followed as best I could.

A bleak, grey dawn saw us walking the road to Dorian. That is, Geralt walked. I stumbled along exhausted and aching behind him. At some point before first light he'd relieved me of my bundle, slinging it over one shoulder. The lessened burden had not made much difference, however. My feet hurt in their boots, for I'd not had time to find socks in my frantic donning. My knees ached abominably from my fall. My thigh muscles trembled as I walked, and the tendons in my groin ached with every step, a small, intimate throbbing. That, at least, was a pain I could weather with a secret smile.

At some point I'd tripped and torn the bodice of my dress. I'd given up hours ago in trying to hold the rent edges together, no longer having the energy to care. The sun burned the tender skin on the rise of my breasts as it lifted higher in the sky. The hem of my dress was tattered from catching on obstacles and hung in shreds, causing me to lurch further. My face itched and tightened under its blood spatters, and the stench of the fire was heavy about me. I hoped we did not come across any guards along the road, for they'd surely take me as a prisoner, with Geralt as my cruel captor.

As the sun rose we started to pass caravans along the road, travelling south to Maribor. Drivers stared at me, and then averted their eyes, cracking their whips to get their beasts to move faster. Merchants watched me closely as they passed, some making warding signs and spitting in the dirt. Boys on the wagons shrieked and pointed, whistling shrilly at me as they went by, making me wince.

After the third such encounter, Geralt started casting irritably about him to find a camping place.

It wasn't until mid morning, though, that he found one to his liking. A small, winding path led off the road to a copse of trees around a well, with an open shelter built to the side. He led the way to it, and I followed in his wake by rote, footsteps dragging, too exhausted to care where I was going. He halted in front of the well, and a few steps later I ran straight into the back of him, bouncing off and wavering on my feet. He spun around and caught me before I could fall flat on my backside, his face impassive as he studied me.

I was too tired to even raise my eyes to meet his. His hands tightened on my arms and then he led me to a shady spot underneath the trees, pressing me down. I sank, groaning quietly in relief. He unfastened the bundle and dropped it next to me, then went to the well. There was a clatter and a splash as he let the bucket down, then he worked at the winch to draw it back up again.

I leaned back against the tree, grateful for the respite from my burning legs and feet, and fought not to close my eyes. I knew that if I did, I would not be able to open them again from sheer exhaustion. Geralt came back with the full bucket, the water sloshing and making deliciously wet noises within. He placed it on the ground and then squatted next to me, taking a corner of the blanket and dipping it into the water. I watched him incuriously as he grasped my face in his hands and dabbed at the dried blood with the wet blanket corner.

The blanket was harsh against my skin but the water was blessedly cool. I looked up at him as he worked, intent on removing the stains from my face. His pupils were narrowed to mere slits in the brightness of the day, his expression still and close. The strong, angular planes of his jaw were belied by the gentleness of his touch.

Gently he swiped the wet cloth over my face, cleansing my forehead and cheeks, brushing over my eyelids and lips, down my chin and neck. His lips thinned as he cleaned my chest, taking in my torn dress. He lifted my arms one by one and wiped them down as well. He pulled off my boots, making me hiss as blisters scraped, and bathed my poor, reddened feet. He pushed my skirt up further, revealing my swollen, bruised knees, and pressed the coolly sodden blanket to them as well. Then he wiped my legs down, washing the road dust away.

All the while I leant against my tree and watched him. The contrast in our roles from less than a week ago amused me in a tired, distant way.

Eventually he finished and dropped the blanket corner. I missed his soothing touch immediately, sighed, and started to struggle up. He shook his head quickly and I sank back down again.

"Stay there," he rumbled. "Rest." I was only too happy to oblige, and succumbed to the heavy pull of my eyelids.

When I woke it was much later, and the afternoon sun was stabbing mercilessly into my eyes, the red glare reminding me uncomfortably of the fire. There was a dim babble of voices from behind me. I sat up, stretching, and winced as sore muscles pulled. Geralt had tucked the blanket behind me as I slept and it fell to the ground.

Getting to my feet was a painful chore. I hobbled over to the well, my throat parched. I was relieved to see that the bucket had already been drawn up, full, and was resting on the well's lip. I dipped my hands into the cool water, splashing it over my face and drinking it down. It was lovely and wet in my dry throat and I felt immediately better.

I looked around for Geralt, missing his presence, and noticed that a caravan had pulled up at the site while I slept. Geralt's tall frame was easily recognisable amidst the softer bodies of the merchants. I did not approach them, however, as they looked to be deep in conversation. Other pressing bodily needs made themselves known to me, and I limped off in search of somewhere to relieve myself.

When I returned Geralt was sitting cross legged by the bundle that held the last remnants of my life. I pursed my lips, angry with myself for leaving it there unattended. He looked up as I approached, face impassive as always. He spoke without preamble.

"Lynnéa, the merchants have a contract for me. It will pay for some necessities for us. I'll fulfil it tonight."

I sank down next to him, drawing my knees up. "Very well."

He blinked, mouth slightly open, obviously taken aback. "No arguments?"

I smiled slightly. "None."

"Huh."

His obvious astonishment suddenly struck me as being incredibly humorous, and I started laughing. I laughed until the tears started flowing down my cheeks, and then I cried, hiding my face awkwardly against my knees. I was acutely embarrassed by my outpouring of emotions, but could no more stop them than I could halt the sun in its path or command the wind to cease blowing.

Geralt reached out and pulled me into him. I huddled by his side until my paroxysms gentled, and then lay there limply, sniffling. He smoothed my hair back and dropped a quick kiss on my temple.

"Feel better?"

"No, not really."

He snorted quietly and gave me a quick squeeze. We sat there for a few minutes in silence, watching the bustle of the merchant's caravan.

Eventually I sighed. "So what is your contract?"

"Wyverns."

"Ah." I cleared my throat, carefully, not wanting to press him. "Do be careful?"

He sounded supremely confident. "Always."

I pushed myself up and wiped my face. His eyes glittered in the afternoon light as he watched me, but I avoided looking at him; instead busying myself with my blanket and its contents. I pulled it over to me, untying the knot and opening it to rummage around in what I had thrown in there.

I shook my head at myself: so unprepared, even with Geralt's warnings. There was no rhyme or reason to what I had brought, it was all random. My husband's trousers and two of his shirts, a clean shift, two loaves of bread, the last of the mutton leg, a knife, the jar of half-steeped white myrtle tincture, a single page torn from one of my father's books, a small pot of suet, my herbs and sewing kit. That was all. Not even any socks.

Sighing, I cut into one of the loaves, sliced the mutton, and offered it to Geralt. He took it and ate, quickly and neatly. I cut myself off a portion and ate more slowly, washing it down with cold well water, and pondered our options. The food would last maybe another day. After that, I had no idea what we would do, save that I would be dependant on Geralt to survive.

The bread stuck in my suddenly dry throat and I coughed. I had not been so reliant on anyone since I was a child. I found I did not enjoy the feeling at all. _Melitele_ , I prayed, _I certainly hope you know what you're doing with this_.

But of course she did not respond.

Geralt cleared his throat and stood in a swift motion, taking me by surprise. I blinked up at him, and he looked down at me. His face softened imperceptibly and he reached down and cupped my cheek in his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb over my lips.

"You'll be safe here," he said quietly. "I'll be back by dawn."

And then he was gone.

His absence was a physical ache, adding to the rest of me that hurt. I fought down the urge to cry again and instead took the bucket of water behind a screen of bushes and gave myself another wash, patting down tender skin. I dressed myself in my husband's old clothing, hacking into the hem of my dress so that I could use the strip as a belt. The dress was well shortened by the time I'd done this. I had to roll up the legs of the trousers so I did not trip over them, and the shirt's sleeves I pushed back up my arms so I could see my hands. I hoped I did not look too comical.

The sun set in a reddish glare on the horizon and I fought the urge to pace, waiting for him. The merchants gathered around their fire and cooked their evening meal, tantalising scents wafting over on the breeze. My mouth watered and my stomach growled. I resisted the urge to eat more of our meagre supply of food, filling up on water instead.

The night passed slowly. The merchants settled, their fire dwindling to embers, and I lay awake, watching the stars slowly wheel by overhead. My body ached as I spread the blanket out and lay on the hard ground, and I shifted restlessly, trying to find some comfort. Eventually I fell into a restless sleep, dreaming of fire and teeth in the night.

There was a familiar warmth behind me when I woke and a heavy hand upon my hip. His breath was slow and regular on the back of my neck, stirring the tiny hairs there. I reached down and twined my fingers with his, pulling his hand up to my chest, and settled into a deeper sleep with a small smile on my face.

When I woke again the sun was barely a finger's width above the horizon. Geralt's hand was nestled warmly between my breasts. I wiggled slightly, pushing my bottom back into him, and he flexed around me, his arm tightening. His breathing quickened and he nuzzled the back of my neck. I made a soft noise of contentment.

He cupped my breast, squeezing gently, then started undoing the buttons of my shirt dextrously, reaching inside. I shivered as he brushed over my sensitive skin and reached behind me, pulling him into me. I could feel the evidence of his arousal against my back, inflaming me, and I writhed against him, a flick and a rub of my hips. His breath caught and I smiled to myself.

His hand left my breast and roamed lower, fumbling with my makeshift belt. My eyes flew open and I looked around, alarmed. The merchants were already well up and about, and I was not so much of an exhibitionist as Geralt obviously was. I hissed under my breath, and he chuckled, the vibrations travelling through my back and making me shiver. His hand left me momentarily, fumbling with something behind him, and then he threw a heavy measure of cloth over us, obscuring our bodies. Evidently he felt this satisfied any need for privacy.

I opened my mouth to protest but his hand was between my legs, pressing and stroking and effectively silencing me. He rubbed me through the fabric of my trousers, pressing against my nub, while his hips flexed behind me. I groaned, and he chuckled again in my ear.

I reached down and untied the strip of cloth that served as my belt, pushing my trousers down over my hips. His helped pull the fabric down, and then his fingers slid into me, circling and making me gasp. His breath was hot on my neck and he leaned forward, capturing the lobe of my ear between his teeth. I lifted my topmost leg and draped it over his, hooking my foot over his leg for support, and grasped his hips, grinding into him. His quiet groan in my ear was low and deep and fervent.

My fingers found their way to the fastenings of his trousers, busily undoing them. He stilled as I reached inside and grasped his length, squeezing firmly, only his breathing growing more ragged. I stroked him, slowly, running my hand up and down his length, feeling the hint of moisture growing at his tip. He shuddered as I ran my thumb over him and then his hips bucked, making me squeak as he pushed urgently against me.

His hand left me and he lifted himself, working his trousers down over his hips, and then he pressed his hardness against my bare backside. I arched my back and he slid himself down slightly. I shivered as I felt his maleness sliding between my legs. He pulled me up, wrapping me in one strong arm, and then with a quick decisive thrust of his hips he was inside me.

He was sheathed within me deliciously, the pressure of the angle making me bite my lips against a moan. Then he started moving and I did moan, muffling it in the crook of his arm. He moved with slow, shallow thrusts; and I pressed back into him, arching my back even further. He kissed the back of my neck, licking my nape as his movements quickened, his breath a fast, light pant against my skin.

I clutched his hip as he moved, feeling the muscles and sinews play under his skin, scratching with my nails. He groaned at that, so I dug in harder, making him growl under his breath. The sound sent a shiver down my spine and I squeezed around him tightly.

"Lynnéa," he moaned, and he reached down with his free hand and pressed against my nub.

My breath caught and I whimpered and he pressed again, harder and in time with his thrusts. His fingers danced over me, a masterful play that made me quiver and whine. I felt the tension in my loins build quickly to an unbearable level and clenched around him, pulling him hard into me. One last press of his fingers had me bucking and biting at his arm to stifle my moans, and then I felt him burst within me, his own moan buried in my shoulder as he bit into it in his release.

We stilled, panting under our blanket. His hand, still buried between my legs, suddenly became too much for my sensitive flesh to bear. I reached down and pulled it up to my mouth, licking the moisture from his fingers, tasting myself on him: the two flavours inextricably meshed. He rumbled against my back approvingly and licked the bite mark on my shoulder, making me twitch.

Too soon he softened and slid out of me. I sighed with regret at the loss and shifted, carefully turning over to face him. His face was peaceful, eyes closed, and he held me to him. I kissed his chest and snuggled myself against his warm body.

Before too long, however, he'd recovered and started pulling his clothing back up. I protested wordlessly, not wanting to move, despite the hard ground under my hip. He was determined, however, and got himself sorted out and upright, kissing me on the forehead as he stood. I lay in the blanket and pouted up at him, making his lip twitch in amusement. He stretched easily, pulled on his gloves, and ambled over to the merchants, leaving me behind to make myself decent and untangle my reluctant limbs from the blankets.

His low voice rose in salute to the merchants as I gingerly stood up, stretching painfully and wincing at my aches. I padded barefoot on the grass to the bushes to relieve myself and clean my body of his attention. By the time I returned I was still aching, but at least wasn't wincing with every movement.

I knelt down to fold up the blankets, shaking dirt and grass from them. By the time I had completed this task, Geralt had returned, hefting a small leather pack and a bulging sack. I looked at him curiously.

"For you," he said, and handed the pack to me. I blinked at him, taking it by reflex. He avoided my gaze and set the sack down at my feet, then strode back to the merchants again.

I blinked after him in a daze, then opened the pack and peered in. Inside was another set of men's clothing, average quality but clean and strong. Underneath that was a short toughly woven coat of a dark grey wool. Underneath that was a small paper twist which contained salt, a pair of deep tin plates, some wooden spoons and a large, empty water skin. And underneath _that_ was two pair of socks, tightly bundled into small balls.

Sudden tears formed in my eyes and I clutched the socks to me. I was amazed that he'd noticed, let alone cared enough to negotiate his contract payment in looking after me. My heart clenched and I very nearly cursed his thoughtfulness, for it made me love him all the more.

Sniffing, I wiped my eyes, relaxed, and gave the socks a fond pat and set them aside.

The sack contained foodstuffs – flour, grains, dried peas and carrots, nuts and fruit. Sitting in a metal cooking pot was a large sticky packet oozing blood. I sniffed at it – it smelt tangy and rich; a wild, unfamiliar metallic scent. I shrugged and set it down before it dripped on me.

I repacked everything, adding my own few belongings and tying the blankets to the pack, and contemplated putting my boots back on, but even with the promise of socks my blisters dissuaded me.

Geralt was still talking with the merchants, so I took the empty water skin and went to the well to fill it. By the time I'd finished he was back, hefting a small money pouch in his hand. There was a light jingle of coins from within it. He fastened it to his belt securely.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

I sighed. There would be no putting the boots off any longer.

I sat down and reached for the socks, smoothing them out over my knees, then, wincing in anticipation, started pulling one on. He reached out and grabbed my hand, halting me. I looked up at him: he was frowning.

He picked up one of my feet, twisting it to inspect the blisters, which were impressive. Deep gouges from the rough inside of my boots dug into my heels and across the top of my toes, pressure blisters had formed on the balls of my feet, and red streaks had started to radiate across the skin. The raw flesh was slightly oozing a clear liquid and the breath of the wind across it stung mightily. The fact that I'd done nothing to treat them yet didn't assist matters.

Sitting back on his heels, Geralt reached for the loops on his mended leather harness and pulled out one of his two remaining glass potion bottles, handing it to me. "Drink half of it, no more," he instructed.

I looked up at him questioningly. "Aren't witcher potions poisonous?"

He nodded.

"And you want me to drink it anyway?"

"Mhm."

I stared at him a moment longer, then shrugged and pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a swig. The potion burned like fire as it travelled down my throat and I seized up, coughing, my eyes streaming tears.

"Sweet mother Melitele!" I gasped breathlessly. I didn't remember my vodka being that potent! Obviously his brewing process added considerable strength to the base alcohol. I felt it blazing a fiery path down to my stomach and then radiating out to my limbs, making them weak and rubbery.

His lips twitched as he watched my spluttering and hacking. Sadistic male.

I handed the bottle back to him and he corked it carefully, sliding it back into place. My feet tingled and I looked down, watching in fascination as the skin knit itself closed over my wounds. I giggled, wiggling my toes, and he rolled his eyes. This only made me laugh the harder.

The tingling travelled up my legs, washing in a warm wave that sparked coolly within me. I stared as the bruises on my knees faded. The aches in my thighs disappeared, to be replaced by tickling effervescence. Even the new tiny soreness of the bite mark on my shoulder vanished. "Oooh," I whispered, watching scratches disappear from my arms to leave tiny white lines in their place. I held my fingers out in front of me, watching them grow and recede, recede and grow; and giggled when they waved at me.

Geralt pushed me back onto the ground, where I lay tittering helplessly.

I looked up and gasped. "Geralt! The sky! It's... shiny!" He did not respond as I lay holding my stomach, looking up into the shimmering air, absorbed by the gently fluffy clouds racing each other across the blue arch of the sky. I felt… wonderful. Amazing. Light and airy and reborn. I flung my arms out to my sides and wiggled luxuriously in the grass, feeling each blade caressing my back through my clothing.

He rolled the socks onto my feet and then slipped on my boots, tying the laces up firmly. He stood up, looking down at me, and then pulled me up to my feet. I clung to him as the world tilted crazily around me. He was the only solid object I could see. I poked him to be sure, and he grunted. I smiled happily up at him and he sighed.

Lifting my pack, he settled it over my shoulders, adjusting the straps. I hummed cheerfully as he bent over me, and sniffed his hair. He smelt lovely and masculine, and I hummed again in approval. He sighed again, picked up the sack, and taking my hand firmly strode determinedly away from the campsite.

I waved merrily to the merchants as we left, giggling at their vacant expressions, and settled in beside Geralt, attempting unsuccessfully to match my strides to his much longer ones, skipping where I threatened to fall behind. He looked down at me as we walked and as I laughed to myself his normally grim face softened.

"Well," he muttered, "at least I know you're a happy drunk."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N - emo heroine is emo, and Geralt is a shrink. Apparently.
> 
> Hugs to my beta, Skeasel, who has the best suggestions (even if I leave her with weird mental images).

My drunk lasted til midday. As the sun reached its zenith the effervescence popped as suddenly as a soap bubble, leaving me with a foul headache and an even fouler temper. My mouth felt as though a small, horridly furry animal with distinctly unclean habits had crawled in there and died. Several weeks ago. With all its friends and relatives.

The sun beat mercilessly down on me and I kicked up dust with every jarring step. Geralt strode ahead of me, his steps firm, resolute; his shoulders squared. He did not once glance back at me. I glared at his back, at his arrogant walk, at his firm backside tightly clad in his witcher's clothes parading blatantly in front of me, and swore loudly as I tripped over a rut in the road.

His shoulders hunched and the distinct sound of a smothered laugh came back to me.

I might have been in love, but I hated him very much at that moment.

A caravan, surrounded by screaming dervishes of guards on wildly snorting horses with hooves that cracked loudly against the road thundered past in a rattling cacophony of jingling pots and other instruments of aural torture. I put my hands to my ears to block out the noise. Ahead, Geralt had paused and was watching the wagons' passing thoughtfully. I stopped next to him.

"They're scared," he remarked.

I muttered something incomprehensible under my breath. I wasn't speaking to him. At least not yet.

He snorted amusedly, the sound driving a ragged spike into my brain, and turned to regard me. "Remind me not to feed you my elixirs again. I think I preferred you when you were skipping and singing and telling the trees that you loved them."

I groaned and pushed past his grinning face. I did not want to be reminded about skipping, singing or declarations of love to inanimate plant life.

He laughed again, the low sound both infuriating me and making me melt, and continued ahead.

A little further down the road the itching started. My skin burnt as if I'd just rolled naked in a patch of nettles. I scratched lightly at my arms, raising red lines, but got no relief. I grit my teeth and scratched harder, raising welts on my skin. The itching continued unabated and I groaned in frustration.

I'd slowed down considerably by this stage, scratching my arms, my legs, my back, contorting and all but writhing on the ground to soothe myself. Then my face started to itch and I reached up with nails that were already reddened slightly at the tips to scratch my cheeks.

A grip like iron stopped me and I looked up, teeth bared in frustration. Geralt had me by the arm, halting my furious scratching. I twisted in his grasp, but could not free myself. The itching was unbearable: I _had_ to scratch, or it would surely drive me insane.

He studied me for a moment, face impassive, then pulled the glove off his free hand with his teeth, drew it back, and slapped me briskly across the face.

My head rang like a gong, my mouth dropped open and I stared at him in astonishment and betrayal as the slap echoed down the road. He turned my face and slapped me across the other cheek. I drew myself up to berate him when I realised that, magically, the itching had stopped.

As the realisation dawned on my face his lips twitched slightly and he released me, then turned and continued down the road. Frantically I started slapping myself: on my arms, on my stomach and legs, on my neck and face. The relief was indescribable, even as my head rang. I moaned softly as I followed him, slapping myself.

After a while the itching ceased and I could continue without the self-flagellation, though my constant slapping had left me with brightly reddened and shining skin and slightly tingly fingers. I had no further ill-effects from Geralt's potion, which was both a relief and a surprise given its supposed toxicity, and the day continued on.

We passed another caravan later that afternoon. By this time my headache had receded somewhat and I had enough presence of mind recovered to note the aura of barely held panic that surrounded it. The merchant driving the wagon had a white, pinched face, eyes staring. His guards roamed ceaselessly about, circling the wagon like ladies-in-waiting attendant upon their mistress. Their eyes flicked from side to side constantly and their horses were lathered, manes and tails tangled.

Geralt paused again and watched them, his frown darker.

"Wyverns?" I asked, forgetting my vow.

He grunted and shook his head.

"Something worse?" My voice was hoarse.

He blinked after the caravan's trail of dust. "Not sure. This type of fear… Monsters also take human form." His face was grim and he reached behind him, stroking the hilts of his swords.

I shivered despite the heat of the afternoon and we continued on.

As night fell he found us a camping spot and lit a fire expertly. I rummaged through my new pack and started making supper for us, taking out the warmly oozing hunk of meat and slicing it into steaks.

"Geralt?"

"Mmm?"

"What's this meat?"

He looked up, eyes shining in the firelight. "Wyvern."

I froze. "Wyvern?"

He grinned tightly, teeth gleaming, and nodded.

I looked at the slab of meat before me and my stomach churned. I swallowed, hard, and continued cutting it, my mouth twisting in distaste. He watched me, saying nothing, his eyes glinting in amusement.

To my surprise, wyvern steaks were decidedly tasty, rich and filling, with a gamy aftertaste. I tried not to think about what – or whom – the wyvern had eaten prior to becoming our own meal.

Comfortably full, I set up our blankets and banked the fire, packing everything away. Geralt rose and paced around the campsite, scrutinising the darkness. I settled back and watched him, my eyes heavy. He was still pacing restively when I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The first few trills of larksong filtered through the crystalline air as I woke. I was alone in my blanket, my back cold. I missed Geralt's warmth and presence terribly, more than I imagined I would. I sat up and looked around for him, and sure enough he was kneeling in meditation before the fire. I sighed and got up, stretched, and bent to shake out the blankets. I rolled them back up and fastened them to my back, and we started another day.

We passed more caravans over the succeeding days, each as frantic as before. The frown on Geralt's face deepened with each one. When we set up camp each night he remained aloof from me, staying awake and patrolling while I slept. I went to sleep alone, and woke up alone. I started feeling an aching isolation growing inside me, but had no idea how to broach the subject to him.

The lines on his face grew and the circles under his eyes darkened as we continued. My legs grew stronger and I no longer stumbled at the end of a long day's walk. I couldn't keep up with Geralt, but at least he didn't have to stop and wait for me quite so often. My isolation continued, however, and I felt more alone than I ever had before. I started questioning why I'd willingly gone off with him, why I trusted him. What he saw in me. I feared he'd abandon me at the first available opportunity.

Six days after the burning of my house, we reached the outskirts of Dorian. The smoke and stench of the town reached me first, causing my nostrils to wrinkle. I'd grown accustomed to the clean smell of dirt as we walked. Geralt paused on the road outside the gates, looking the town over.

"You should stay out of the city," he said to me without turning.

I stopped next to him and crossed my arms. "No."

His brow raised and he looked at me, eyes shuttered. "No?"

"No."

His arms crossed, mirroring me. "And why not?"

"Because I won't be left behind. I won't have you avoiding me. We need to talk, and I can't talk to you if you've wandered off somewhere without me."

His eyes bore into me and I looked back at him earnestly. He stared at me for a moment longer, then grunted and started off towards the gates, leaving me to trail behind him.

The air inside the town was close, the press of humanity overwhelming. Voices yelled and blared, echoing in the tight confines of the streets. I grimaced and wondered why I preferred being on the road, after only a few days of travel.

The crowds swirled out of Geralt's way as he strode onwards and I was hard pressed to keep up with him. I pushed past people rudely, ignoring their protests, determined to stay with him. I bumped into the wide back of a merchant, who swore at me and pushed me back several paces. Growling irritably, I walked past him, ignoring his words, and looked around for Geralt.

I couldn't see him anywhere.

My heart started thumping unpleasantly and I spun, searching. I couldn't spot his distinctive white hair, the twin hilts of swords raised above his shoulders. I turned again, feeling dread starting within me, and jumped as a hand settled firmly on my arm.

I whirled around to see him standing there, looking at me. He raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Come."

I swallowed my incipient panic and followed after him, to the doors of a large wooden building.

It was an inn, I saw from the gently swaying sign above the heavy ironbound doors. The building loomed squarely over the street, a steady flow of traffic having worn a faint path to the doors over the years. I pushed through the doors, which moved surprisingly easily at my touch. The place was full, the smell of sweat and stale beer pervasive. A pair of minstrels tinkled tunefully in the corner, and there was a musical clinking of dice from a darkened alcove. Geralt strode up to the innkeeper, who was as rotund as most seemed to be, and started haggling for a room in low tones. The innkeeper stared from him to me distrustfully. I tried to put on my most winsome, weary expression. I think it may have come off as more of a grimace, however, as he quickly averted his eyes and thereafter ignored me.

Geralt handed over a few coins, receiving a key in return, and gesturing to me marched off through the common room and up a set of wooden stairs at the back. I followed tiredly. The stairs were like torture to my tired leg muscles.

Our room was quite close to the top of the stairs, I noted gratefully. I dumped my pack on the floor and arched my back, stretching it. Geralt cleared his throat.

"There's a bathhouse at the back of the hall. You can order food from the waitress." He walked over and pressed some coins into my hand. "I'll be back later."

I reached out to grasp him, too slow as he moved away. "Wait…" But he had already gone, the door closing firmly behind him.

I stared at the door for a while, then sighed and sat on the bed, wanting to scream. I settled for burying my face in my hands instead.

Eventually I sat up, pushed my hair back off my face, and set off to find that bath. A long, hot soak would do me the world of good.

About an hour later, cleaned and refreshed, I padded downstairs to find some food. A harried looking waitress was sweeping the floor by the bar and I went up to her. She looked up as I approached.

"What'll it be, dear?"

I ordered chicken and bread and some pears, and some milk to wash it all down with. I had no desire for alcohol, not after that potion. She nodded and took my coins. I took a seat at the end of a table, looking around me while I waited for my food. When it arrived I tore into it hungrily, washing bites of chicken and bread down with great gulps of milk. The pears I cradled and bit into reverently. Their sweet juice ran down my chin, and I wiped it up with a finger, not wanting to waste any.

Replete, I sat back with a sigh and surveyed the room. Geralt was not here, I'd known that from the moment I came downstairs. The townsfolk seemed almost determinedly merry, as though forcing their laughter. The minstrels played lively music, calculated to keep their listeners happy, but steered clear of inflammatory songs. Both the waitress and the innkeeper scanned the room constantly as they worked. There was a pair of guards at the door who remained vigilant all the time I was there. No one sat near me, and no one talked to me, despite glances my way. It all pointed to a town in some sort of trouble.

I frowned to myself. Trouble I already had. I did not need more.

I lingered downstairs, more out of a hope to see Geralt than a sense of community, but the hours wore on and he didn't appear. I gave up hope and trudged back up the stairs despondently.

Inside the room, I kicked off my boots and sat on the edge of the bed. I let my hair out of its knot, running my fingers through it, while I thought about the situation. My nails caught on snags, making me wince. I wondered what was happening, what had occurred to make this change in how he treated me. Had I done something? Said something?

My mind raced in circles, trying to pinpoint the moment when things had started to go badly, but I came up with nothing. I shrugged. I had to talk to him, to sort this out. We were stuck with each other for the moment. Assuming, of course, he would still see me safely set up in whatever I chose to do.

I shook my head, trying to dispel the fear that I'd be left alone in a strange town with naught to me but a change of clothes and a pack. He wouldn't leave me. _Wouldn't._

I swallowed past the sudden, painful lump in my throat, gave up on my hair and slipped my trousers off, draping them over a chair. I crawled into bed, blowing out the lantern, and lay curled up in the darkness trying not to cry and failing miserably.

I woke to a gentle hand stroking my hair, pushing it back from my face and untangling its length. I started and turned. "Shhhh," he whispered.

"I thought you'd left me." My voice was hoarse and wretched.

I felt rather than saw him shake his head. "No, Lynnéa, I'll not leave you." He sighed. "Not yet."

I hunched further into my ball. "I don't want you to go," I whispered.

He heard me anyway. "I have to go, eventually. You know that."

"I know. I don't want it, though."

I thought he might have smiled then, bittersweet in the darkness behind me where I couldn't see. "I know."

I let the tears flow silently down my face and into the pillow while he lay behind me stroking my hair, my hands bunching into fists underneath me. Neither of us said a word while I wept for what couldn't be. Eventually my tears dried and I lay sodden and exhausted, staring through the darkness at the wall.

We lay like that for the rest of the night, mute and motionless save for his slow, rhythmic stroke of my hair. My eyes burned by the time the sun had risen enough for me to make out the wooden panels of the wall. Neither of us made any attempt to move until the sun was well up, slanting through the window onto the bed.

Eventually I sighed wearily and pushed myself up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. He watched me, silently.

"So what do we do now?" I asked without turning around to look at him.

He shifted on the mattress. "What do you want to do?"

"What are my options?"

He paused for a moment. "From Dorian you can go north to Redania. Oxenfurt, where the Academy is. I've no doubt we can find you a sponsor into the Academy, if that is what you wanted. You can go west to Gors Velen, though there's not much there, or further west to Cidaris. Or you can go east to Vizima, though I would not recommend that."

"What _would_ you recommend then?"

A sound like shrugging from behind me, a shifting of cloth and leather. "If you don't want to go to the Academy or find a witch to prentice to… Cidaris is probably a good option for you."

"Cidaris it is, then."

"Are you sure?"

I laughed, a low painful chuckle. "Sure? No. But it's a direction, at least."

I turned and looked at him. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, face almost naked for once, his expression pained. "You don't have to decide yet," he said.

I shrugged. "The sooner the better. Your money will run out quickly. We can't stay in this inn forever."

He studied me. "No," he said slowly, "but neither should we leave too soon. You should rest."

"I can rest when I'm dead," I replied fatalistically.

His lips thinned. "You're not dead yet, Lynnéa." He reached out and caught my limp wrist. "And neither am I."

He pulled me, unprotesting, into his lap and looked down at me, frowning slightly. I stared back up at him blandly. If it had to be that he would leave, then I resolved to not make it any more difficult than it had to be.

He sighed. " _N'ess a tearth_ , Lynnéa," he whispered. I frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"It means, do not be afraid."

I stiffened. "I'm not afraid."

His lips curved sadly. "Yes, you are." I opened my mouth to protest and he laid his finger across it, silencing me. "You are," he insisted. "Afraid of being alone. Afraid of being with someone. Afraid of living. Afraid of dying. Afraid of change. Afraid of staying the same."

He sighed. "You stayed in that old, worn house for fear of leaving. You stayed in that village because you were afraid of the unknown. You would rather have held onto what you were familiar with, despite its negativity, than move to somewhere more positive, where you could live a full life, not a slow descent into death." He gazed into my eyes, challenging me to dispute him.

I couldn't, of course. I stared up at him, appalled at his accurate summation of my life. I felt the prickle of tears in my eyes, and they welled up, spilling onto my cheeks. His face softened and he wiped one away tenderly.

"Don't be afraid, Lynnéa. You are young. You have yet more life left. Live it. But live it for yourself. Promise me that."

I closed my eyes at the obvious appeal in his face and voice. He shook me slightly. "Promise?"

"I promise," I whispered.

"Good," he said. He shuffled back on the bed and leaned against the headboard. I stretched out with my head still in his lap. "Sleepy?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, not really. Weary. But not sleepy."

He played with my hair for a bit longer while I lay and thought about what he'd said. It amazed me that this man, who I'd known for less than a fortnight, could breeze into my life and change it so completely. How he could wander in and know me so well in such a short time? How could I trust him with my life after only knowing him for so few days?

I realised it didn't matter. He'd saved me from a death no less real than one threatened by monsters, if one longer, more painful, and more socially acceptable in the accomplishment. I thanked Melitele for him.

"Geralt?"

"Mhm?"

"Do they teach witchers psychoanalysis?"

He laughed, a short bark of amusement. "No. Not as such. But we learn about people."

"Ah." I paused, thinking. "How old are you, Geralt?"

"Older than you, Lynnéa."

"But how old?"

He didn't respond.

"I'm hmmm... 28 this year. At midsummer."

Another pause.

Finally he shifted irritably. "Older than you, Lynnéa. Leave it at that." His tone was flat and discouraging.

Chastened, I lay in silence for a while.

"How did your hair turn white?"

"Are you going to ask me questions all day?"

I grinned. "Probably, yes."

He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "It turned white when I became a witcher."

"Oh." I refrained from asking 'why' to that, as I knew he wouldn't say. "What colour was it before?"

"What... hm. You know, I don't remember."

The pause extended for a long while after that.

"What's it like, being a witcher?"

His hand on my hair stilled. "Why do you want to know?"

"I'm curious about you, Geralt. You're so…" I shrugged.

He grunted.

"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," I added hurriedly.

His hand resumed its stroking. "No, it's fine. I just… haven't talked to many people about this." He cleared his throat. "It's my life. It's what I do. I don't really think of anything else."

"But what's it like?"

"What's it like being a woman?" he countered.

"I... I just am. I don't know anything else to compare it to. It's just what I am."

He shrugged. "Being a witcher is the same. I've not known anything else."

"Oh." I closed my eyes and tried very hard to imagine a small Geralt, a little boy Geralt without white hair and golden slit-pupilled eyes, a boy without his grace and capabilities and _possibilities_ , a boy who stumbled and went to his knees as he learnt to be a witcher. I failed utterly; even as the concept made me smile with tenderness.

"So what is it like?"

There was a long silence. "Terrifying, at times. Boring at others. Interesting. Lonely. Almost always lonely." He shrugged. "You get used to it."

"Are there other witchers around?"

"Very few. We're a dying breed."

"I'm sorry." And I was. Now that I had met him, I could not imagine a life where I hadn't known him. And there had always been witchers. I felt the world would be a much poorer place without witchers in it, without their strength and grace, without their power and knowledge. Without this witcher in it, in particular.

"No matter," he said.

I opened my eyes and looked up at him. He was staring at the wall absently and looked down as I moved. I reached up and cupped his face in my hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble against my palm. He closed his eyes and quite deliberately nuzzled into my hand, and my heart turned over at his show of vulnerability. I smiled sadly and ran my thumb over his cheek. I remembered wanting him to show his emotions to me, back in the hut. Now that he had, I found them wrenching. It was a moment I would always treasure.

The moment passed, as moments do, and he moved his face away. I let my hand drop back to my side. My stomach growled loudly, making me start, and his lips twitched.

"Shall I get something to eat?"

"Please," I said ruefully. "And then maybe a bath."

His eyes flickered, the spark of desire I hadn't seen in days growing within them. His voice lowered intimately, its deep, rough timbre sending delicious thrills through my being. "A bath you say."

I smiled shyly up at him. "A bath I say. Care to join me?"

"Your wish is my command, m'lady."

And suddenly everything was all right again.


	8. Chapter 8

Dorian was an unremarkable, uninspiring town; valuable mainly because of its position. From Dorian, you could travel west to the coast; north to Redania and the Academy, Novigrad and Tretogor; or east to Vizima and the lands beyond. South was... well, no one went southwards much any more. Quite apart from the massive, brooding bulk of the Brokilon Forest lying menacingly dormant to the south, to the south was also the massively brooding bulk of the Nilfgaardian Empire, also menacingly dormant. For now.

We lingered in Dorian for a few days, then a few days more; until over a week had passed and we were still there. We were resting, I told myself, though really I wanted to drag out my time with Geralt for as long as I possibly could. Dorian obliged me by being a convenient stopping point. Our lodgings at the inn became familiar - overly so, and yet I didn't want to leave. I took the opportunity to wash and mend all our clothes, enjoying the resultant spectacle of a naked Geralt lounging nonchalantly on the bed, and being flustered as he did the same to me. I trimmed and mended my torn dress. The hem now reached to my knees and the bodice was daringly low, but it was wearable, and not appreciably worse in style than what I saw some of the women of the town wearing, though I'd probably want to wear a shawl if I went out wearing it.

Geralt was constantly in search of a contract to replenish our - his - rapidly depleting coin. Frequently he'd leave, and every so often he'd return with a small handful of coin for some petty job he'd completed - a fleder in a cellar, a drowner in a well, a wraith haunting an estate. Slowly he accumulated it, his face twisting as he contemplated the slack bulge of his coin pouch. I frequently felt that I was holding him back and was consumed by guilt. I tried to make it up to him in other, womanly ways. If he picked up on that he did not say.

I left the room but rarely, preferring to watch the streets from a perch on the windowsill as I sewed, observing people scurrying about self-importantly like so many ants on an anthill. The mood, even as gathered from above, was grim. The few times I ventured out to the streets, always by myself, I found the townsfolk suspicious and distrustful. War and the threat of war were abundant topics of discussion - war with Nilfgaard, war with the Scoia'tael. Civil war. Rebellions. Famine. Poverty. Disease. I found the subjects depressing and ignored them as much as possible. I strove to put them out of my mind. Unwisely as it turned out.

Geralt grew more frustrated with the town as the days passed and turned surly. Well, surlier. He tried on two separate occasions to get me to agree to leave - once over dinner in the inn, and once while I was washing the blood out of his shirt. Both times I demurred, putting him off; distracting him with words or food or myself until he gave up on the discussion.

Seven days after we arrived, Geralt had had enough. I was sewing at my usual seat at the window, looking out at the morning drizzle, when he came in and closed the door firmly behind him. He'd been out scouring the market for work, again, and his hair was still sprinkled with tiny raindrops that shimmered silver in the lantern's light.

I looked up at him and smiled, my heart clenching at the sight of him as it always did.

He unbuckled his harness and laid it down on the bench beside the door, stifling the metallic chime of his sword hilts striking the wood, then very slowly and deliberately removed his gauntlets, pulling them off finger by finger and then laying them down too. He looked at me, eyes flashing golden in the gloom, and the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. He unfastened his belt, pulling the supple leather through the loose knot securing it and releasing it from the prong of the buckle. He dropped the belt onto the table next to the gauntlets without looking, and reached up to the throat of his leather jerkin.

My mouth went dry and my heart started pounding, a rhythmic thudding that reverberated through me. As if he could hear, the other corner of Geralt's lips turned up as well, and he unfastened the clasps of his jerkin one by one, nimble fingers moving dexterously of their own accord while his eyes remained fixed on mine.

Geralt shrugged out of the jerkin and slung it over the room's sole chair, then settled in it lightly and bent down to remove his boots. One by one they slithered off and landed with a heavy thump on the floor, leaving him barefoot in breeches and his simple linen shirt. With a swift move he reached up and pulled the shirt over his head, dropping it carelessly to the side, and then he stood up and stretched. His breeches hung low on his slim hips without the presence of a belt to secure them, and as I watched they slipped down even further, revealing the point of a hip bone and a delicious ridge of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband.

I felt a sudden sharp pain in the pad of my forefinger and gasped. I looked down to realise I'd accidentally driven the needle into my tender flesh. A ruby droplet of blood welled up as I pulled it out, hissing, and it trembled roundly, on the verge of falling onto the very clothes I was mending.

All of a sudden my injured hand was captured in Geralt's warm, firm grip and I started in surprise. I'd not heard him move across the floor, creaky as it was. Still with that sensual smirk in place, he brought my hand up to his mouth. His eyes captured mine as slowly, deliberately, his tongue swiped across the tiny wound, gathering up the bead of blood. He swallowed. The pounding of my heart stuttered almost painfully and his smirk deepened.

His tongue gently played over the pad of my finger, soothing the sting of the pinprick, and then he swirled it over and around, blazing a wet trail over the nail and back to the soft skin underneath. I gasped involuntarily and my breathing quickened, as did my heart rate. As I watched his pupils widened, dilating; and then his grip on my hand shifted slightly, drawing me further in.

His lips parted and then he was gently suckling on the end of my finger, scraping it over his teeth while his tongue caressed the tip. His mouth was hot and wet, reminding me of how dry my own was, and I swallowed convulsively. Slowly his suction on my finger hardened and he drew it further into his mouth, tongue flexing strongly against the underside. It seemed an age before my finger was fully engulfed and his lips were wrapped around the base, his breath warm and potent on the back of my hand.

I heard an odd, strangled noise, but it wasn't until Geralt's eyes laughed at me that I realised it had come from my own throat - a groan of desire and longing, husky and deep, totally unlike my usual voice. I blushed and closed my eyes in embarrassment. Geralt suckled again, then slowly withdrew, leaving my finger oddly chill in his wake, and I groaned again in regret.

"Lynnéa," he murmured, and I opened my eyes again. He was staring at me, pupils wide and depthless, and I fell headlong into them all over again.

Geralt tugged at my hand, gently but insistently, and I obeyed, putting aside my mending and getting to my feet. I swayed towards him ever so slightly, drunk on his presence and scent, on the remembered feel of his mouth on me. Smirk still firmly in place, he tugged again and I swayed into him, my hand on his chest, and closed my eyes as his lips descended to mine.

His kiss burned through me, hot and needy, and I tasted the metallic remnants of my blood on his tongue: a tiny, potent zest. My whimper was stifled by his mouth as we kissed, and I clutched at him as my legs trembled. Geralt threaded his fingers through my hair, releasing it from its usual knot, and pulling on it. My neck bowed back and his mouth left mind to sear a path down my neck. I whimpered again as he nipped at the skin over my jugular and my breathing grew even more erratic. My nails dug into his chest and he grunted approvingly.

He suckled on the nipped spot while his hand slid up underneath my shirt to knead insistently at my breast, thumb pressing over my already hardened nipple. My breath caught as he pinched, gently at first, but then firmly; and my back arched, pressing him harder against me.

My fingers roamed from his chest to his stomach, skimming over the skin and tracing that tantalising ridge of muscle down to the waistband of his breeches. His stance widened as I lightly scraped my nails back up to the start of his breastbone, and then around to his back.

Geralt's hips butted against mine insistently, and then his fingers descended to my trousers, leaving my nipple aching. He undid the buttons with a flick and pushed them down, until they puddled on the floor at my feet. I stepped out of them, nudging them aside. The hand tangled in my hair tugged unrelentingly again, and my neck bent back even further, until I was staring at the ceiling and clutching at Geralt for balance.

His mouth left my neck and moved to my ear, where he suckled on the lobe, his breath hot and moist against me. His other hand slid down over the curve of my hips to the top of my thighs and then snaked upwards to the junction between them, his fingers delving into me suddenly, and I gasped.

I was aching and more than ready for him, and he rumbled approvingly in my ear as he felt that hot readiness on his fingers. I expected him to take us over to the bed, but he did not move; merely stayed where he was, holding me firmly to him, his arm as strong and steady as a rock behind me. I relaxed, became pliant in his arms, trusting him to support me.

As if this were a signal Geralt began his assault on my sensitive flesh, fingers stroking and pressing against me. My whimpers deepened into moans, full voiced and throaty. I became aware of his voice, low and deep in my ear, urging me on wordlessly.

I shuddered as he slipped two fingers deep into me, his thumb rubbing over my nub. My hips moved in time as he thrust them. "Yes," he hissed in my ear, "yes;" and I bit my lip as the room sparkled around me.

His pace quickened and I felt my release building. His tongue traced the curl of my ear, warm and wet and delicious, and I shuddered again.

"Lynnéa," he whispered as he stroked, "we need to leave Dorian." He nipped hard on my ear lobe and I groaned animalistically. "We need to go." His thumb circled my nub. "No more delays." He pressed and my breath caught. "Tell me we'll go." His tongue flicked into my ear. "Tell me, Lynnéa." His fingers curled, crooking within me and hitting some unknown magical spot, releasing a torrent of ecstasy that burst from me explosively.

"Yes!" I screamed as I came. "Yes, yes, yes!" Caring only for the feel of him around me, within me, his approval in my ear, his passion beside mine.

I collapsed in his arms, quivering and trembling in the aftermath of my release, panting harshly. He was cradling me when I recovered and I looked at him reproachfully. He was unrepentant.

"You cheated," I croaked, my mouth dry and parched, and he grinned.

"Yes."

I grumbled unconvincingly and he laughed, a low chuckle.

My limbs shook and he scooped me up effortlessly. I buried my face in his chest. "Cheat," I muttered again, inventively. "You know I can't refuse you anything when your hands are on me."

His chuckle reverberated through his chest and into mine. "I know," he said.

He placed me down on the bed and then lay beside me on his side, head propped up on his hand while the other moved from my shoulder to my hip in long slow strokes. The smirk was still fixed on his face, and his pupils were still dilated. Insufferable man.

He shifted closer and I felt the hard butt of his arousal against me. "You can't put things off forever," he said reasonably. His hand slipped over my backside and down the back of my thigh, pulling it up over his hip. "Running away never works." He skimmed back up to my stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind, and worked at the buttons of my shirt, opening them one by one. "I don't know why you persist in doing it." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my abdomen, working up to the underside of my breast. "You know it's pointless."

I grasped his head in my hands, threading my fingers through his silver hair.

"Geralt."

"Mmm?"

"Shut up and take off your pants."

"As m'lady commands."

When I woke next it was early afternoon, and the sun had emerged from behind the clouds to shine golden through the window, gilding our skin where we lay entangled on the bed. Geralt was still fast asleep, his breathing deep and regular, face smooth and unlined; and I brushed his hair back gently before gingerly sliding out from underneath him.

Standing up, I stretched, smiling, and fetched a cloth and the ewer of water to wipe myself down with. Then I put on my dress and tied my hair back. If we were to be leaving we'd need provisions, something to hold us for a few days at the very least, preferably a week, but I doubted our meagre funds would hold up to that. I gathered up Geralt's coin pouch, since I had no coins of my own, and slipped out of the room, closing the door carefully behind me.

Downstairs the inn was relatively quiet, the stench of stale alcohol and unwashed bodies not yet overwhelming. I nodded to the innkeeper as I passed and he grunted.

Outside the air was damp and clean after the morning's rain. I breathed it in deeply, already looking forward to being out on the road again with Geralt, out in the fresh air and sunlight every day, with the crackle of a fire at night. I went down the tavern's steps and made my way through the town to the market.

The market bustled, hawkers calling their wares, goodwives gaggling like geese in group, and children dodging madly down the ways. Guards patrolled in pairs, filching an apple here and a pinch or a kiss there, and I sniffed. It never changed.

I prowled the stalls, looking for foods that were long lasting, but more importantly, cheap.

A group of serving girls had gathered, giggling outside the door to a residence, smooth dark heads leaning close in together as they whispered conspiratorially. I smoothed my own locks back self-consciously as I passed, then halted as I heard one say "witcher".

I fiddled with my dress, brushing non-existent stains from the skirt, and strained my ears, listening.

"Oh, yes," said one. "He's staying in the tavern. I've seen him. He's ever so handsome."

There was a chorus of sighs.

"I hear he's staying with a sorceress," another added confidentially.

"Oooh!" said the chorus.

"I wonder if the rumours about witchers are true... they say they can plough all night and still leave you wanting..."

Stifling a smile, I moved on.

I reluctantly parted with several precious orens at a baker's to buy a few loaves of a dark rye bread, rich and thick and tasty, and then moved to the next stall where the keeper was selling various types of cheeses. I found a half wheel of a dark yellow cheese, wrapped in muslin, battered and bruised. I picked the cheese up and sniffed. No whiff of spoil. I shrugged and haggled with the keeper, paying slightly less than I'd anticipated.

A few stalls further down I found vegetables and fruit, fresh and dried, and bought a small bagful. The stall next to that had honey, and I crowed under my breath as I haggled for a small pot, already imagining making griddle cakes on the fire at night time.

By the time I'd finished my shopping I had a heavy bag on my back and the sun was sinking behind the walls, drenching the square in deepening shadows. The stall keepers were packing up their wares, the market goers had trickled away with the setting sun, and the square was all but deserted. I counted the remaining coins, feeling satisfied over my bargaining, and started to head back to the inn.

Ticking off coins and days in my head, I was paying less attention to the street than I should, and consequently was taken completely by surprise when a hand snaked out of nowhere and grasped me by the upper arm. Hard fingers bit into my flesh painfully and I winced and looked up. My heart sank. A group of four louts had surrounded me unawares, dirty and slovenly and horrible, grinning at me menacingly.

"Well well, lads," sneered the largest of them, a hulking brute with a large belly and scraggly beard. "Lookee what we got here. Looks like this lovely lady is needing our help to get home safely."

The 'lads' chuckled, licking their lips and rubbing their hands together lasciviously. I drew myself up, my eyes darting about, wondering whether I would be able to break free if I threw the food at them and ran for it.

"What do you say, lads," said the brute. "'Ow about we give the lady a hand, then. I'm sure she'd be most... grateful." He stared at my cleavage appreciatively and I cursed my stupidity at wearing the dress.

I forced myself to smile up at him winningly, my mind working furiously. "Well, sir," I said slowly, "I thank you for your concern, but truly there's no need. I only live nearby."

"'Sat so," leered the brute. "Well then, not far to go. If we help you, of course."

 _Of course_ , I thought sarcastically, and hefted the bag on my back, measuring its weight.

He stepped forward, licking his thick lips. "Now then lady, don't be discourteous like. 'Ow about you just step over 'ere then, and we'll 'ave a bit o' fun and be on our way, then."

I stiffened. "Thank you, but no. I must be off."

His heavy brow lowered. "No? No? D'you hear that lads? The lady says no. How could she possibly turn us down?"

The lads crowded in behind me and I felt a hard, daring pinch to my buttocks. "Ow!" I yelled, and whirled around, slapping at the offending hand. They fell back laughing, fending me off easily with upraised hands. The one to the left reached out and grabbed my right breast with a dirty hand, squeezing painfully. Tears sprang to my eyes and I dropped my bag of supplies to attempt to pull it off.

They moved in closer, their breathing hoarse, the stench of their dirty bodies and thick breaths rolling over me like a winter fog. I slapped at them, starting to panic, but they only laughed and pressed in. My hand connected with a chin, and the mood quickly shifted to ugly. Their leering faces pushed in, angry now. One of them slapped me across the cheek, making my ears ring. Another hand pinched my breast, twisting cruelly. I felt fingers down my back, and then the brute pushed in behind me, the hard jut of his erection grinding into my back. He grabbed at my flailing arms and pinned them before me, fingers clamping painfully around my wrists.

"Now then, lady," he growled in my ear as I panted, wriggling futilely, my eyes rolling in fear, "don't be ungrateful, we just want a bit o' fun."

I turned my face away from his fetid breath, the tears starting to run down my cheeks. "No, please..." I whimpered.

He laughed. "See, lads, she's beggin' for it now!" The lads all laughed with him, and my tears continued to flow.

He wrenched on my arms painfully, sliding one hand up to my breasts and groping, then nodded to his lads. "Grab that bag, and into the alley, quick now." Reefing on my arms, he dragged me backwards into the shadowy darkness of the alleyway behind us. I looked around wildly, seeing no one, not even the incompetent guard, and I started to despair.

Laughing amongst themselves, the three louts picked up my bag of supplies and followed us.

I blinked in the darkness of the alley, blinded and afraid, and bit on my lip, trying not to scream. It seemed the very fate I had tried to avoid before I met Geralt had now caught up to me. My head rang with the remembered blow from the baker back in my hut, making me dizzy and weak, and I felt panic bubbling up inside me. I had no Geralt to save me now. I was alone, and about to be raped.

The brute behind me thrust his hand up under my skirt between my legs, his thick fingers biting into the delicate flesh there, making me cry out in pain. He probed for a bit, while I bit my lip and wished him away.

"Oh yeah," he grunted, "this 'un will be a good fuck." He pushed me into the wall face first, hard, fumbling with his trousers with his other hand. My forehead connected with the wall with a sharp crack and I reeled, dazed. Caught up in my memories, I whimpered and cowered against the rough bricks, screwing my eyes shut tight and fervently praying to Melitele to make it stop.

And the goddess heard me.

A harsh throat cleared itself behind me and the louts ceased their anticipatory mutterings.

"Leave the lady be."

The hand between my legs stilled and then withdrew, and I huddled into myself, sliding down to collapse at the base of the wall.

"Now then, sir," said the brute ingratiatingly, "we was just having a bit o' fun. No harm done."

"Mmhmm," said Geralt. "Seems that way."

I looked up. He was standing in the mouth of the alleyway, arms crossed over his chest. His hair glinted like bone in the dark and his eyes glowed yellow and feral. A shiver went down my spine.

The brute seized Geralt up and even as I watched I fancied I could see his loutish thoughts churning. Just one man, his expression said. One of him, and four of us. Even with swords, we can take him.He bared his teeth. "At him, boys!" he yelled, springing forwards.

The louts circled around, surrounding Geralt, and he lifted his larger sword from its scabbard, holding it easily in both hands. The brute had picked up a large cudgel from somewhere and he swung it menacingly, face contorted in rage. Geralt's expression never varied, only his eyes moved, flickering from one opponent to the next.

The first lout rushed in, club in hand, and it whistled as he swung it through the air at Geralt. Geralt spun deftly out of his way, his sword streaking silver through the darkness, and it hissed as it parted clothing and flesh. The scent of blood rose in the air and the lout grunted loudly. Then the rest were upon him.

Geralt moved in a blur, the sword an extension of his hands as he twirled between his adversaries. The brute moved in and swung a heavy overhand blow at Geralt's head. Geralt parried it, his sword ringing against the thick cudgel, and metal screeched as he slid the blade down before spinning away to strike from the rear.

The brute yelled as Geralt's sword bit into his back and staggered forward, knocking one of his lads to the side. Geralt sprang into this opening and thrust his blade into the lout's belly deeply, ripping upwards through his abdomen and chest cavity. The reek of entrails joined the stench of blood in the air and I retched weakly, my eyes fixed to the carnage.

Shaking his blade, Geralt dropped the body to the ground and spun to the left. The lad there held a rusty old sword, pitted and worn with age and ill use. He held it up in a weak parrying gesture, only to have it torn aside by the strength of Geralt's blow. He staggered backwards and Geralt kicked him in the knee, making him stumble and fall forwards. Geralt leapt over him, blade reversed, and thrust it into the back of his neck. He gurgled obscenely and collapsed.

The brute yelled again in anger and swung his cudgel powerfully, striking Geralt a glancing blow to the side. He rolled with the blow, springing back to his feet a few paces beyond the brute's reach, and then whirled back into the fray.

The last lad swung his club clumsily at Geralt, who almost contemptuously flicked it aside and ran him through. His sword erupted from the lout's back in a spray of blood and he kicked the body back to fall in a heap at the brute's feet, then looked up at him and grinned evilly.

The brute rushed forward with his cudgel raised, swinging it heavily at Geralt's head. Geralt danced to the side, flicking his sword up and across the brute's thighs. The brute cried out and staggered back, blood spurting out into the air. He shifted his grip on the cudgel and lumbered forward again, snaking it down towards Geralt's back.

Geralt swayed to the side, letting it whistle harmlessly past him, and then spun around, his blade sparkling in the darkness. It bit deep into the brute's side and he staggered back, dropping the cudgel as he held the wound. Geralt walked up to the brute and spun him around, grasping him by the hair and exposing his neck. He brought his sword up and drew it deeply across the brute's throat, slicing effortlessly into flesh and tendons and nearly severing the spine. Blood spurted in a red shower and he dropped the limp body to the ground, then looked over at me.

I looked back up at him from my huddle, my eyes wide and tears tracing down my cheeks. It had all happened so fast... barely a minute had gone past. All that death... and the night had barely deepened. I blinked.

Geralt straightened and flicked the blood from his blade before sliding it home on his back again. It made a steely slither as it slid back into place and I shivered. He bent down and quickly searched each of the bodies, pocketing whatever coin they had on them.

He walked over to me and knelt beside me. "Lynnéa." He looked me over, reaching out with a gentle hand to hold my chin and study my face. His lips tightened as his fingers tenderly brushed over my swollen cheek and forehead. "Come on, let's go."

He helped me to my feet as I sniffed and wiped my nose on my hem, waiting patiently as I steadied myself and straightened my dress. He put his arm around me and we started moving.

I stopped by my fallen bag of provisions and picked it up slowly. It felt ten times as heavy now as what it was before and I groaned under my breath. Geralt halted me, taking the bag out of my hands, and slung it over his shoulder, carefully avoiding his sword hilts. He led me from the alleyway back out into the square, his eyes hard as agates in the darkness, scanning constantly. I leant gratefully into him, swearing fervently under my breath.

 _Thank you, Melitele. Thank you._

Pettishly, I kicked the brute right in the stones as I went past. Hard. Then slowly, we set off back to our room in the inn.


End file.
